


oh love, remind me

by sleeponrooftops



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Q, Explicit Language, Fluff, Gore, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Q has a name, Q has brothers, Sex, Tattooed Q, Violence, retired Bond eventually, the minions are everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-18 01:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 76,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11280729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: Sequel to:you’re a holy fool all colored blue.Home, for James, was once a shoulder holster in a foreign country, women he didn’t know and regularly forgot, the London skyline outside his window, a martini shaken just right, and a suit so sharp, marks sometimes cut themselves on his edges.  Home, now, is a person, is pizza after a long day, an entire cabinet full of tea, soft pillows and a warm mouth across his shoulders—it’s still London, but home is a flat he shares, a bed where he fights for blankets, the permanent indent of a book spine resting against his ribs, and he’s finally done running away.





	1. avant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes—
> 
> i. Hi, oh my god, it’s been over a year, thank you so much for reading this if you’re coming back after all that time. To be utterly honest, I’ve been thinking about writing this sequel for that entire year, and am so stupidly excited that we’re finally here.
> 
> ii. So Q moves, for reasons that you’ll read below, but in the meantime, [here](http://cdn.architecturendesign.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/44-Crescent-Ninth-Street-Two-Bedroom-Apartment.jpg) is what his flat looks like. Roughly. I’ve changed some things, and that’s really only a blueprint (a fancy one at that, though), so the actual design of it is much different. I’ve also created something of a [mood board](https://www.pinterest.com/marydrover/oh-mercy/) on Pinterest? I don’t really know what it is, but it’s got cats and spy aesthetics and a little bit of London.

_I wasn’t composed of broken bones or demon limbs,_

_So please watch over me._

“Left.  Your other left, 006.  Your other _other_ left.  For Christ’s sake, 006, do we need a refresher on what your lefts and rights are?  Shall I get you socks and mittens with little L’s and R’s stitched into the—that is still your right!  _Left_!  Oh, sod it, fall down the bloody well, then.”

 

There’s commotion on the other line, and Q pointedly _does not care_.  He reaches for his scrabble mug, which is _empty_ , spits something about committing high treason, and then witnesses Alec Trevelyan falling down a bloody well.

 

“Q!” he exclaims when he hits the bottom.

 

“I explicitly said to avoid your right,” Q says evenly.

 

“No, you continued to say left, your other left, your other _other_ left—which, aside, what even is your other _other_ left?”

  
“It’s the left you have when you’re still going right after being told to go left.  Nope, you’re already down there,” Q says when 006 starts to look around for handholds to bring him back up the well.

  
“It was concealed,” 006 grumbles.

 

“Which was why I told you to go left.”

 

“You know what,” 006 says, and rips the modified sunglasses off his face.

 

“006!”

 

He crushes them underfoot, and Q loses visual.  He takes a measured breath, inhaling to the count of seven, and exhaling to the count of eleven.

 

Eleven double oh’s.  More than any quartermaster in the history of MI-6 has had at a single time, and Q is responsible for their safety, their wellbeing, and their missions.  Granted, R and Nala handle a fair amount of missions, and he’s even recently started delegating some of the less obnoxious ones to Keira and Arjuna, but it is still him who outfits them, who briefs them, who has to listen to them snap months of hard work beneath the heel of their shoe.

 

He’s already got Alec’s credit report open before he realizes what he’s doing, and Q closes it out with a sigh.  He’ll ruin him later.

 

“I’ll have you know,” he says evenly, coldly, “those glasses took up quite a bit of my budget.”

 

006 does not respond.  Q can hear him, plunging into the depths of the well that has been reconfigured and transformed into the epicenter for a network of tunnels.  He considers adding that the glasses have night vision installed in them, but decides to save that piece of helpful information for when 006 has successfully made it back out into the light of day.  That won’t help him now, either way, what with them being a crumpled mess.

 

In, seven, out, eleven.

 

 _Eleven_.

 

In the events following Spectre, M did a bit of tidying.  He sent James away on an extended undercover mission, which kept him short-tempered and frustrated for the first three months, and then dark for the next five.  Q knew why he was being sent away, knew that M was taking him out of the public eye, but it didn’t make his bed any less cold, his shoulders any less tight, and his mood any less volatile.  He allowed himself three full days to be snappy with everyone, and then he reined it in, neatly packed his emotions away behind a reinforced steel wall, and got back to business.

 

In his absence, M hired three new double oh’s.  They all happened at once, and they all happened without Q knowing about it beforehand.  He was down in his branch, surrounded by minions separated into myriad tasks—Keira and Arjuna were working as a team to lead 002 through a mission that would only realistically take a day or two, Nala was overseeing the development of a new virus, R had taken first on 008’s current mission in Baghdad, and Faruq was in R&D trying to put out a literal fire while the culprit of said fire was standing, shoulders hunched right up to his ears, head bowed, and fists tight by his sides, at the helm of Q branch, enduring a terrible lecture about setting actual _literal_ fires in one of the most hostile environments in all of MI-6—when M walked in flanked by three new agents.

 

Q didn’t stop in his quiet tirade.  He let every ounce of disappointment and anger roll right off him and into the fire minion—though the anger was mostly at himself for outright forgetting the minion’s name—only sparing one glance as the doors opened.  When he was finished—when M had migrated to the plant corner, and the three new agents were standing together, looking unsure, which just irritated Q further—he sent him off to help Faruq put out the fire, intercepted a bit of broken code 005 had just sent their way, and glared at it for four full seconds before M said, “Q.”

 

He sent the code off to Rashmi to handle, who startled as Q transferred 005 to him, as well, and turned to M.  “No,” was all he said.

 

M, professional as always, didn’t smile, merely lifted an eyebrow.  “Agents 0010, 0011, and 0012, this is your new quartermaster.  He’ll have you outfitted and prepped.  Q, files have been sent down.”

 

M wasn’t foolish enough to ever give the 001 moniker to anyone after the last one—Q hadn’t been here for it, but he’d heard plenty of outrageous stories—and thus he now had eleven agents, 002 through 0012, to babysit.  The last quartermaster, Eve told him later, had only been trusted with seven in total.  The one before, four, and when he’d asked when the last time their roster was this full, she’d given him this smug look that he refused to interpret and told him five quartermasters ago— _five_ ; Q was loathe to think why there had been so many, what had happened to the early ones to go through so many so quick—they’d had nine.

 

He needs to stop being so careful with them, and just let them bloody well die.

 

006 is still careening headlong into the dark while Q tracks his vitals and provides assistance whenever he stops at a fork.

 

He allows himself, briefly, to wonder where James might be right now, who or what he might be doing, if he’s wrapping up the mission or still in the thick of things, if he’s ever going to come home, if he’s even alive—and stops himself right there.  He can’t think about this at work, can’t let his walls crack when there are too many people depending on him.

 

The three new agents still haven’t been sent out into the field.  They _have_ , in truth, but not really.  They’ve been sent to nearby countries for short missions, and then to farther countries for a bit longer missions, but they’ve all come back without any serious, or even mild, injuries, with their equipment intact, and Q is eager to shoo them off to somewhere far away and exotic so he can yell at them about their lefts and rights.

 

“When I say left, _006_ , I mean _left_ ,” Q growls suddenly as Alec starts to veer right.

 

“I’ve got a sense about this right, Q,” 006 says, trotting along, “The air is clearer down here.”

 

“Have fun, then, Gandalf,” Q mutters.

 

Alec howls in delight, and Q doesn’t bother reminding him about being discreet.  Though Q’s lost visual with the glasses, he’s still got a thermal reader attached to 006’s suit that he doesn’t know about, and he doesn’t see anyone for a few miles at least.

 

The next time he reaches for his mug, it’s full, and he throws a smile over his shoulder in the general direction of Nala.  A small notification pops up in the corner of his screen, and he refrains from sending up a prayer to an entity he doesn’t believe in.  0010 has been assigned to a mission in Cambodia to infiltrate a drug ring.  He clicks into the email, reads it in a heartbeat, and grins at M’s postscript.  Another mission will be coming down in a few hours for 0012, and he thinks it’ll be to Q’s liking.

 

He wonders if M will ever admit that he’s keeping him so busy because he’s afraid Q will break otherwise, wonders if he’ll ever admit that he sent James on a deep undercover mission with the intention of never seeing him again, wonders if he’ll ever be able to shake loose of the vice wrapped around his heart, making his bones cold and his sternum ache.

 

 _Eleven_ double oh’s, he almost says aloud.  His thirty-third birthday is in two weeks, and it’s possible he’s at the height of his prime.  He hates to think that, that he’s peaked so young, but then he remembers that the last quartermaster was ancient, and he only had seven.

 

Eleven.

 

002 is still in love with the moon, and is overly grateful whenever Q sends him a bit of culture nearby.  He brings back exotic pastries, waxes poetic about the new generation of youths, gets feisty when Q tries to talk literature with him, and has an endless collection of old records.

 

003 wears his suits with a crisp air of formality and business, and is still fond of knife fights in the dark.  His cool demeanor budges only when Q is clearly affronted by something, always quick to try to pacify the situation even if he has no idea what the situation is, seems to be collecting dogs with every eighth mission, and recently got himself kidnapped.  Nala got five days leave for her excellent recovery.

 

004 is still a hard-edged, sharp-tongued, awful-spirited woman that hates the minions of Q branch and detests how young Q is like it’s a personal attack, but Q knows about her children now, and she’s softened a little since he started keeping tabs on them.

 

005 recently got engaged, shares a love of reptiles with Nala, and keeps cutting her hair shorter.  She’s taken to lingering in Q branch for tea while she chats with the minions, has been known to procure pizza when they’re in the midst of all-night hacks, and has even convinced Q down into the training room to work on his hand-to-hand combat every other Thursday evening.

 

006 is vexing, arrogant, and on a very, very short leash.  M has already sent down a suspension effective immediately, which Q simply cannot wait to dole out.  He adores his job, and cares deeply for his agents, but 006 has been showing some terrible habits as of late—he smokes more, misses his aim too often, flirts when he should be working, and loses equipment when there’s absolutely no reason to other than he’s being spiteful.

 

007 has been undercover for eight months, three weeks, four days, and seventeen hours, but Q isn’t counting.  They had two months post-Spectre to be lulled into a false sense of security that everything was okay, and then M shipped him out into the middle of Iceland, where his blonde hair and cold blue eyes would hide him well, and where the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, _and_ Interpol had all met a dead end.  Soon, it will be a year since the last time he saw him, and too long since he spoke to him.

 

008 is his favorite, and Q will unabashedly admit to that.  They exchange pictures of their children and nieces or nephews, respectively, go out for drinks on Fridays with a few of Q branch, Eve, Bill, and 005 if they’re not otherwise preoccupied, and she’s even started coming for standing Thursday dinners.

 

009 is a curse upon all, and if Q hadn’t tripped right into the natural disaster that was James Bond, he would be well on his way to nursing an open wound masquerading as a crush that would last too many years and break his heart too many times.  He’s charming and unfairly handsome, but both are softer and quieter than James.  He’s made for breaking hearts and snapping spines, and Q has to remind himself, _every fucking time_ , not to stare at those green eyes for too long, or he’s going to trail off and make a fool of himself.  To make matters worse, he’s also a film lover, an avid sports fan, and loves to talk Q’s ear off about both.

 

He hasn’t gotten to know the new agents well enough yet, but he’s starting to pick up little pieces of them to file away for later use.  0010 and 0012 are both women, both of color, and both without families.  They each have a love of the sea, always seem to know what species of bird are native to the country they’re in, and treat Q with a high level of respect.  It took him an absurdly long time to discover that they were fraternal twins, and half of his branch is still laughing at his obliviousness.  0011 is one of the few men with a family—003 is the only other, and 002 keeps saying that one day he will, but then falls hopelessly in love with every young man he crosses paths with—and he seems to own an actual _pack_ of dogs, as well as thirty acres of land in Alaska, but Q is still on the fence about him, though he can’t quite say why.

 

They’re rowdy and unpredictable and infuriating, but Q is stupidly fond of them, which may be why M is trusting him with so many.

 

“There’s light up ahead,” 006 says, pulling him back.

 

Q scans three different screens—one for Alec’s vitals, gritting his teeth at how high his heartrate is, another for the blueprint of the tunnels, and a third for the thermal readings.  “Catch your breath,” Q says quickly, trying to be discreet.

 

Normally, 006 might obey, might concede that he’s well past his prime now, and even if he’s a little bitter about James still being on the roster when he’s two years away from required retirement age, but clearly in better shape than half of them, _normally_ , he’ll slow down and take a breather while Q deigns the upcoming world safe.

 

Normally.

 

Today, he says, “Sod off, Q,” and starts sprinting.

 

“006!” Q yells.

 

Nala, overseeing a small group working on rare venom antidotes, doesn’t startle, though they’re all wearing headphones and working too deep to really notice what’s going on, but R looks over at him sharply, Arjuna stops in mid-sentence, and 008, just coming through the doors, pauses over the threshold.  0010 is behind her, though this seems to be a coincidence.  008’s flight from Africa landed an hour ago, but 0010 is likely coming to collect intel for her upcoming mission.

 

“006!” Q growls, fingers flying over the keys, “There are—”

 

Abruptly, and for no reason at all, the thermal readings splutter out of existence.  Q switches tracks, trying to find where it’s gone, trying to see if there’s a piece of code that’s warped itself, trying to figure out what the hell is going on when 006 says, “I’ll report back when I’m finished.”

 

Static crackles over his earpiece.

 

Q, for the first time in recent memory, freezes.  His hands go still over his keys, and his mouth opens just a little, revealing a small crack of surprise in his armor.  Only once, one single moron in all of the truly idiotic double oh’s that he carefully and meticulously works to keep alive, has ever gone dark on him without previous instruction to do so, and the old 005 was engulfed in flames because of it.

 

008 and 0010 are standing in front of his desk.  R is talking to 002 again, but glancing at Q too frequently.  And somehow, it’s M that cracks the ice around him.  “Why has 006 just gone dark, Q?” he cuts into the dead feed he was using to communicate with 006.

 

“I—” Q says.  These are traitorous words, and he wants nothing more than to swallow them, “I don’t know.”

 

There is a short, terse pause on the other end before M says, “Find him, and begin extraction.”

 

Q steps away from his desk, away from his laptop, and looks over to R.  “002 sends his regards,” R says, already starting to tap into Q’s network, “There’s a strawberry moon coming up, apparently?”

 

“Yes,” Q says absently, “It’s—”

 

In, seven, out, eleven.

 

Q nods once, to himself, and tucks up behind his walls again.  “R, please assist 006 in any way you can remotely.  He’s outside again, but in a rather undeveloped area.  Make use of satellite imaging to find him.  008, your flight was well, I trust?”

 

She shrugs.  “As well as can be expected.  I’m due in medical, but this—” she holds out a small flash drive, the other hand wrapped around an open wound near her ribs, “—is for you to demolish small civilizations with.”

 

“Flattered, as always,” Q says, dropping the flash drive into the pocket of his cardigan, “Do try not to drip on your way out.”

 

008 smiles exasperatedly at him and turns away, heading back toward the doors as 0010 nods briskly at him.  “Cambodia,” Q says, “Estimated time is, at minimum, three to four weeks.”

 

“Excellent,” she says as Q steps out from his desks, leading the way out of his branch.

 

He switches to his phone on the way, bringing up 0010’s mission file.  He scrolls through it, looking for anything of import, as he continues, “The file has been sent to your mobile.  Please peruse it discreetly.”

  
“IE: not on the plane,” she translates.

 

Q smiles at his phone.  Her sister made that mistake on her last mission, and though she handled it aptly, she still had a situation to diffuse that she shouldn’t have.  “Yes, that would be best,” he says, “Confidential information, as always, but this is particularly sensitive.”  He scans them into the armory where 0010 waits patiently near the front, watching Q wander deeper.  When he returns, she tests her gun to be sure it lights up green, pockets her radio, and frowns at the watch he’s handed her.

 

“Is the alarm loud?” she asks.

 

Q’s heart trips in his chest.

 

Eight months, three weeks, four days, and eighteen hours.

 

The three new agents haven’t met James yet, don’t even know his name, but they’ve heard plenty of wild stories about the infamous 007, and he knows all of them are eager to finally lay eyes on him.

 

Q wonders if he’ll ever see him again.

 

“It is,” Q says, “Among other things.  I’ve also sent instructions to your mobile for what each time does.  Only on the hour, with no added minutes, please.  These will soon become standard issue, so I trust you’ll review the instructions accordingly.”

 

“Of course.  Thank you, Q.  Will that be all?”

 

“Check in with Eve before you leave to ensure M hasn’t left any last minute memos, but otherwise, yes, that will be all.”

 

They leave the armory, and are heading back down the hall together when 0010 says, “I heard through the grapevine that your birthday is coming up.”

 

Q makes a face.  “Indeed,” he says, “The minions usually have something planned.”

 

“A few of the other agents and I were wondering if we might take you out for a drink,” she says, her words starting to rush together.  Q glances at her.  She looks a little nervous, though he can’t imagine why.  “Eve is invited, as well, of course,” she adds quickly.  Q frowns as they approach the doors to his branch.  “Speak of the devil,” 0010 says when they stop at the doors.  Eve is perched on R’s desk, either helping or distracting.  Q can’t tell from this distance.

 

Q sighs.  “As long as the _other agents_ don’t include 006, that sounds nice.”

 

“Oh,” 0010 laughs, “No, don’t worry.  M is in a right state about him.”

 

“As he should be,” Q says, “Until then, 0010.”

 

He steps into his branch, gaze flicking around to the different groups.  Nala’s venom antidote team is still working furiously, though when he pauses by them, it seems they’re finally getting close to something.  He talks with Nala for a few moments before stepping over to check in with Keira, Arjuna, and Faruq, who have just returned from R&D with freshly finished prototypes.  He takes longer than he intends with them, and when he finally reaches R and Eve, the clock has ticked up to nineteen hours.

 

“Q, darling,” Eve says when he stops in front of them, arms folding across his chest as he eyes flick over R’s screens, growing tighter by the second behind his glasses.

 

“I’m going to kill him,” he mutters.

 

Eve smiles awfully.  “Alec?” she guesses, “M is furious.”

 

“Destroy his credit, donate all his money to charities, and implement a— _R_.”

 

“Holy shit,” R says, fingers hitting the keys a little harder, “Holy _shit_.”

 

“Well, that’s in poor taste,” Eve says even as Q jogs over to his desks, skids to a stop behind his laptop, and starts typing.  Eve follows, coming around to the front of the desk and tipping her gaze upward, to the larger screens, one of which is currently displaying a live video feed of 006 on his knees, bound and gagged, the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, surrounded by ten people in all black, their faces covered by masks made of bones and with mesh stretched tight beneath.

 

His eyes are fierce and bright, his chest heaving, a nasty gash opened along his chest.  He looks like a trapped animal, and Q doesn’t understand where everything went wrong.  This mission had been a simple reconnaissance one.  This particular group was too much for them to touch yet, and 006 was sent in to break some of the barriers down for them, _not_ to make contact.  Later, Q will review the mission in excruciating detail to figure out where exactly 006 snapped and decided to go off-book.

 

R throws a program at the video to translate it with only a second of lag time, and a robotic voice tells them that if MI-6 sends another agent into their midst, this will be the last time they show mercy.

 

Q hacks into 006’s earpiece, overrides every command and firewall that rears its ugly head, and comes out ready to wage a war on the other side, “006, I’m detonating your gun remotely.  It will give you at least eight seconds to—”

 

They shoot him in the head.

 

Q falters, trips up a line of code, and loses contact with 006 even as he starts to fall.  He does so slowly, his head sagging to one side, toward one shoulder, and then starts to roll forward before his whole body pitches into the ground, and he collapses in a small cloud of dust from the sand beneath him.

 

Q keeps typing even as the rest of the room trickles into silence.  He opens up a private line with M, says, “Agent down,” and still detonates 006’s gun.  One of the ten people is holding it.  Q watches them die.

 

“Confirm,” M says.

 

“Oh, Q,” Eve says softly as the person next to them is thrown backward by the explosion.  Their head bounces of the ground with alarming speed, and they don’t get up.

 

“006,” Q says, “Headshot.  R, location.”

 

There’s another gun on 006’s body, but it’s not one of theirs, and Q ignores it in lieu of the grenade he told Q he’d lost six months ago and kept taking on missions with him.  He spares one moment of silence, of sorrow, and then sets the world on fire.

 

——

 

Fourteen hours later, M finally arrives in Q branch.

 

In the last fourteen hours, too many things have happened.  Q’s nerve endings are threatening to snap in half, his breaths are coming too short, and he wants to shoot something.  Eve has promised, via text, that she’ll be down in four minutes to join him in the range, and then they’re going out for late night Chinese and too much alcohol.

 

Hours one through three after 006 was murdered, Q delivered Nala’s completed venom antidotes to the Germans, fielding sporadic questions as they played with it.  He typed up a full report of 006’s mission, and set six different searches going for any information he could gleam on the group 006 had encountered.  At the end of the third hour, he had a name, the God of Small Things, and nothing more.

 

The literary reference was not lost on him, and the absolutely destroyed gun on the desk next to him was proof of that.

 

Hours three through eight, he scoured every network available to him, and many that were not, got himself in trouble with the NSA and exchanged a few nasty words with one of their techs, promptly got booted out, and snuck back in a few minutes later to poke around quietly.  At the end of hour eight, he had two pictures and two incomplete files.  He was still working on getting rid of the redactions.

 

Hours eight through nine, he was forced to eat, given herbal tea, and signed his way through a small stack of papers.

 

Hours nine through fourteen, he scraped away the redactions on both files and plunged into a hole that promised to drop him into a twisted and dark Wonderland.

 

At hour fourteen, a hand taps against his desk, just on the edge of his periphery, and Q reaches for his tea.  It’s blessedly full, and with caffeine again, and he downs half of it in three long gulps.  M waits as Q starts to back out of his hole, starts to sweep away his footprints, and eviscerate any signs that he ever existed in this alternate Wonderland.  He blinks to obscure the numbers tripping across his screen, flings himself back into the safety of MI-6, and kills any potential ghosts following him.

 

When, finally, he surfaces, his vision is a little blurry around the edges, and M is frowning at him.

 

“I’d like to make one thing clear first,” M says.  Q nods, waits.  Whatever punishment M wants to deliver, he deserves.  This is his fault.  006 is dead because he wasn’t paying attention, because he handed him off to R, because he was angry with him and didn’t look past that.

  
“This is not your fault,” M says.

 

Q blinks.  “What?” he says, completely derailed.

 

“Not a single iota,” M continues, “006 got himself into this mess after repeatedly ignoring your instructions to remain on-grid, as well as ignored a directive from me reminding him this mission was about recon and nothing else.  He disobeyed orders.”  Q exhales slowly, and his shoulders drop a little.  M doesn’t react other than to say, “I was not going to lift his suspension.  He was as good as dead if he managed to make it back here.  Q.”  His voice is firm, unyielding.  “This is not your fault.”

 

Q allows himself a full second to gather his wits, and then another to check for holes in his walls, and a final one to breathe.  When he’s ready, he says, “Here’s what we know.”

 

——

 

James spits a mouthful of blood onto the cracked concrete beneath him, swipes a hand across his sweating brow, and frowns at the bodies in front of him.

 

There are four of them, all dead, all kingpins in their own right.  Three of them were foreign, one was native to Iceland, and they were each disturbingly hard to kill.  He thinks a few of his ribs might be broken, if not badly bruised, and his shoulder is aching something awful from his shoddy job at resetting it after the Icelandic one tore it out of its socket, thinking that might give him an advantage—it didn’t, and he’s dead because he was cocky.  There’s a throbbing at the back of his skull that promises to turn into a headache, or worse, later, its source a gash along the nape of his neck when one of the foreign ones tried to _behead_ him with an _axe_.  James is still reeling from that, and the axe is sticking out of the foreigner’s back, handle embedded in his spine and sharp edge swaying lightly in the breeze.  He’s bleeding from a stab wound to his right bicep, a shallow cut following the edge of his face on the left, and the same knife is still firmly lodged into his abdomen.  He knows better than to take it out right now.  It’s likely the only thing keeping him alive, and it’ll be hell later when he’s trying to stitch himself up if he’s dead.

 

He does a quick body scan for anything else.  Both his ankles and wrists are intact.  His knees are sore, but that’s to be expected.  One of his hips is protesting the roundhouse kick that had knocked one of the other foreigner’s cleanly into unconsciousness.  His knuckles are swollen, his jaw hurts if he opens it too wide, and his nose is probably broken, if the blood is anything to judge by.

 

With a hand circling the knife, adding more pressure to the wound, he starts staggering away.  It’s not going to take long for someone to realize their four most important leaders are missing, and he needs to put as much distance between them and him as possible.

 

James considers, as he hobbles back through the warehouse, locates the car he stole, and unceremoniously dumps behind the wheel, groaning, that things back home might not be in his favor.  He’s considered this more than he likes to admit, but now that the mission is over, now that he might actually be heading back to England— _back home_ , his heart whispers, _back to loud purring and soldering smoke and bergamot and crooked smiles and flashes of greybluegreen behind dark frames and expensive whiskey and rambunctious football arguments and soft blankets and Sunday morning records_ —it’s the only thing he can think about.  Not the knife in his abdomen, not the taste of copper on his chapped lips, not his raw, bleeding knuckles, but this uncertainty churning something dark and awful through him.

 

His home may not be there anymore.  His flat, certainly, is gone, but that was gone before he left.  His home, though, the whispered conversations in the early late hours under the unforgiving lights of Q branch, the takeaway and tea and Instagram-worthy coffee, and the smile he loves when he’s cooked up something truly magnificent, even the bitten insults and the snap of something gone wrong.  It all may be gone.

 

James has been dark for so long, he doesn’t know what to expect when he finds the light again.

 

It is truly a feat of pure skill, dumb luck, and sheer willpower that he makes it back to the shoddy motel he was staying in.  The room itself isn’t all that terrible, though the sheets do often smell like nicotine, and the décor is a little drab, but the staff is friendly and doesn’t ask questions, the water pressure is acceptable, and the little forest it sits near is excellent company at night.  He makes a beeline for the bathroom, kicks the door shut, and gets to work.

 

Somehow, he doesn’t die.  He does give it his best effort, however.  Between blacking out when he finally gets the knife out and nearly bleeding out on the cracked tile floor, and smacking his head off the wall when he trips into the shower, which ends him splayed out on the floor of the shower, breathing hard while water hammers down on him, James isn’t sure how he doesn’t die.  Eventually, though, he manages to wash away most of the blood, stitches everything that needs stitching and that he can reach—his neck will have to wait until later, so he wraps it in gauze and hopes for the best—and stumbles back out into the room.

 

Really, James wants to lie down and sleep for the rest of the week, but they’re going to figure out where he is sooner rather than later, so he changes into clean clothes, scowls at his beard, and crashes back out of the room.

 

There is no flight booked for him, no escape route whispered sweetly into his ear, no one to guide him out of this mess.

 

M sent him here to die, and though he knows it, it still stings a little.  He told him it was for MI-6’s image, told him it was so that they could tidy up a little without him mucking things up, but he knows.  He’s two years away from the mandatory retirement age, and M needs to get rid of him quietly after Spectre, after Skyfall, after it all.  He wants to wrap this all up, stick a bow on it, and call it a day.

 

James collapses into the stolen car, and sags against the seat for a moment, just breathing.  The sun has begun to set, staining the world in violent hues of red bursting with purple, and with just a hint of gold beneath it all.

 

He breathes for five seconds.

 

He thinks of falling into the King size bed he bought, with pillows that smell like sandalwood and bergamot and lavender and a little bit of wood smoke, thinks of the deep, uninterrupted sleep he knows awaits him, the kind he never thought was possible before.

 

He thinks of the book spine indent between his ribs that he’s lost, that he’s yearning to get back.

 

He thinks of endless balls of fur curled up at his feet, on his hip, on his chest, between his legs, anywhere they can be the most inconvenient, thinks about burying his face in their fur and inhaling the familiar scent of _home_.

 

He thinks of the black zeroes and the single letter on the insides of Q’s wrists, wonders if M has discovered them yet.

 

He thinks of Q’s voice in his ear, his mouth on his spine, his smile pressed into his shoulder.

 

“Alright,” James grumbles, opening his eyes and turning the key in the ignition.  Whether or not home is still there waiting for him, he needs to get out of Iceland, and England seems like a safe bet.

 

——

 

There are not enough bullets in the world.

 

Q tries to fire them all anyway.  He hits his mark every time, calling out body parts, everywhere but the head, and whips his empty clip at the ground when he’s done with it, slamming in a new one.  Eve keeps pace with him, follows him over the edge and into the dark until, finally, Q’s arm drops at the same time his chin does, pivoting down toward his chest.

 

Eve flicks her safety on, drops her gun, and eases Q’s out of his hand.  She sets it down, and wraps around him, pulling him close.  “I know, sweets,” she says when Q shudders, “It’s okay.”

 

“It’s not,” Q mumbles into her shoulder, “It’s— _not_.”

 

“It isn’t,” Eve agrees, rubbing circles into his back, “But it happens.  And it’s going to _be_ okay.”

 

“It’s my fault,” he whispers.

 

Eve squeezes him, stops rubbing circles and instead just holds onto him.  She doesn’t say it isn’t because she isn’t M, but Q feels it anyway.  With a dejected sigh, he lifts his arms to hug her back, and Eve plants a firm kiss on his temple before she releases him.  “Chinese?” she asks.

 

“And tequila,” Q says.

 

“I’m vetoing that,” Eve says, already turning away.  She takes Q’s hand before he can protest, though he doesn’t, and winds their fingers together so she can tug him along.  They don’t stop up in Q branch because they brought everything down with them, and she releases his hand only so he can tug on his parka, loop his messenger bag over his head, and adjust his glasses wearily.

 

They walk out hand-in-hand until they get to the lift, and then Eve wraps an arm around Q’s shoulders, draws him in close, and takes a steadying breath when he winds his arms around her waist, burrowing against her a little.  “I know, dear,” she whispers, dropping her face to his hair, breathing him in, “I know.”

 

“Is this what it felt like when you shot—” his voice cracks at the end, and then the doors start to chime open.  Eve reaches forward, jabs her thumb against the button to close the doors, and then at the one to lock the lift down.

 

“Hey,” she says, unraveling from him.  Q’s shoulders slump forward, his gaze on the ground, and this noise, this godawful noise, trips out of him.  “No,” Eve says, reaching to curl her hands around his face, tip him up to look at her, “Don’t do that.  Not right now.  Not with the rest of it.”

 

“He’s never coming back,” Q whispers, “I know that.  I’m just—it hurts.”

 

“Q—”

 

“I thought, if I could keep Alec safe, then—well, then he had to come back because it wasn’t just me waiting for him, it was—it was more than just—” he cuts himself off, his mouth trembling and his eyes huge and sad, and Eve hauls him close again, clings to him as Q threatens to break.

 

He doesn’t.  He refuses to.  This is the most he’s talked about James’s dark disappearance in several months, and he’s not going to let that flood go now, not just because Alec is dead.  Instead, he inhales slowly—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—holds it at the top, thinks about Keats and Joyce waiting at home for him, thinks about how many spring rolls he’s going to order, thinks about Eve’s strength and determination, and exhales—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven.

 

“Crab rangoons,” he says.  Eve pauses a moment, and then pulls back, lifting an eyebrow at him.  “And spring rolls,” he continues, “Wonton strips and miso soup and edamame and Peking raviolis.  And another cat.  And a new flat.”

 

Eve releases him fully, a laugh edging into her smile.  She shakes her head, lifts the lockdown on the lift, and clicks out into the main room.  “A new cat?” she asks over her shoulder.

 

“Yes,” Q says firmly, following her.

 

“Q,” a voice says from somewhere on his left.

 

He turns halfway as Eve asks, “A kitten or a cat?”

 

“Cat,” Q says, “I don’t have the temperament for kittens anymore.  Yes, 0010?  Is there something wrong with your file?”

 

0010 smiles warmly, glancing at Eve, and then back at Q.  “This may seem—morbid,” she settles on, “But we’re going out for drinks, for—for Alec.  Would you like to join?”

 

“We’re?” Q asks, looking around.  She appears to be alone.

 

“Charles’s flight has just landed, and he’s meeting us there,” 0010 says, “Luis is trying his damndest to make it, Thema and Bradley are getting their coats, Adelaide just texted to say the sitter arrived, Reese is—ah, right there.”  Her gaze shifts minutely, and Q looks over his shoulder to find 005 chatting amicably with Eve.

 

He has to spare a moment to take stock—002, 003, 0012, 0011, and 008—because he so rarely uses their names, which seems a little impersonal and paints him further into the evil mastermind overlord in a way that he hates.  And so, instead of dropping more numbers like he wants to—009 and 004—he asks, “Kellan and Adrienne?”

 

“Kellan’s in Saudi Arabia still, and Adrienne is in the air.  She told me to tell you that she would be looking for you first thing in the morning, though.”

 

A thought occurs to Q, and he blurts out, “Do you have some kind of double oh group chat going on?”

 

“Don’t tell M,” 0010— _Ebele_ , he carefully reroutes his brain—says with a small smile.

 

“I’m surprised Adrienne went for that,” he says, starting to turn back to Eve.

 

“She hates being left out,” Ebele confides, “So?”

 

“Eve?” Q asks.

 

“Still Chinese,” she says, “But with more Peking raviolis.”

 

“And tequila,” Q says.

 

Eve sighs insufferably at him.

 

It takes a truly heinous amount of taxis to get them to Eve’s favorite Chinese restaurant, which is open at the worst sort of hours, but has the best ramen noodles Q has ever tasted.  On the way, he types and retypes a message to R four times before he finally gives up.  They can have their own outing, so he opens up his email instead, sends it to R with Nala copied, and exhales relief when the taxi finally pulls up to the curb.

 

It takes some rearranging of tables, but they manage to get all nine of them seated eventually, and then the chaos begins.  Q orders more food than any reasonable person should ever be allowed to order, but then, so do the rest of them.  They ask for the bottles of alcohol rather than just glasses, and quickly set to drinking.  When Bradley starts to express surprise that Q can more than hold his own against them, Adelaide snorts and says, “It’s highly likely he’ll drink you under the table, _Brad_ ley.”

 

Q hides his laugh at the way she drawls out his name in a handful of wonton strips, and then the stories begin.  They’ve all, with the exception of the newest agents, got stories about Alec, good, bad, and in-between, and they all get told.  Q has some of the more hilarious ones from missions, but Eve has a few dirty ones that she swears them to secrecy for.  Charles and Luis, both around nearly as long as Alec, have the fondest and the worst ones, and Adelaide surprises them all with a truly joyful and innocent one.

 

The night wanes on as they continue to eat and drink and mourn.  Q is reminded, both fondly and heart-achingly, of another night like this, nearly a week after the old 004 and 005 died.  They’d gone out for Mexican and drinks that time, and there had been much fewer of them, but it’s still a night he’ll never forget.

 

“Yeah,” Eve says when she catches his mind wandering, “Me too.”

 

“You, too?” Adelaide says, smiling sadly, “I was just thinking about that.”

 

“About what?” Ebele asks.

 

“The last time we gathered like this,” Luis says, nodding slowly, “Surprisingly, it was a long time ago.  We’re in good hands.”  Q waves one of those good hands dismissively at him, reaching for his glass.  He’s not sure what’s in it, but it burns on the way down.  “No, Q,” Luis says, straightening.  He snaps in the general direction of Thema and Ebele, both of whom react in the same way, one eyebrow arcing up toward their hairline as Bradley snorts.  “You, too,” he says, jabbing a finger at the air near Bradley, “Pay attention.  Do you know how rare it is that there are this many of us?  Hell, that almost every moniker is filled?  We’re missing, what?”

 

“001 and—006,” Q admits, “Technically, there’s a moniker for a thirteenth, as well, but alas.”

 

“Someday,” Luis says, “For now, we’re all alive in part because of you, Q, and we wouldn’t all be here, _eleven strong_ , if not for your twisted, cunning, devious little brain.”

 

“Spoiler,” Eve says, “it’s not that little.”

 

Bradley hiccups straight into a laugh, and the rest of the table dissolves, either reaching for drinks or laughing with him.  Q watches them, a little bit of warmth leeching into his cold bones.  Alec may have been his fault, no matter what anyone says, but the rest of them, _his_ double oh’s—they’re all at this table because he cares for them deeply, and he’ll do everything in his power to keep them alive.  It’s a disadvantage, he knows, but one he shoulders proudly.

 

Even so, the cold bones remain.

 

He’s been stripped of his home, and he doesn’t know how to stay warm anymore.  Some days, he just wants to go back to his flat and die.  Others, most days, he reminds himself that he was someone before James, and he can be someone after him.

 

Eve squeezes his hand under the table, and he swallows his sorrow.  Today is not the day to mourn James, not yet.

 

——

 

James gets halfway to the border of Iceland before he gets caught.  After pulling over on the side of an old, dirt road, he crashes in the backseat, forces himself awake after two hours, and starts driving.  He finds a convenience store tucked into the center of a little town, inquiries about getting off the island, and forty minutes later, his tires are shot out, the driver’s side door is ripped off its hinges, and James is thrown face first into the ground.

 

Before he can even think about getting up, there’s a boot on his ear, pressing him against the ground, a sharp coldness sliding into the vein at his neck, and darkness floods his senses.

 

When he wakes later, it will be in a damp, dark cell with bars that singe the skin right off his fingers, a cough rattling in his chest, and the empty understanding that he’s never going home, but for now, the darkness settles over him like a warm blanket, and he dreams of Q.

 

——

 

Life is sometimes a thing that happens to him, and sometimes a thing that happens with him.

 

Some nights, Q doesn’t sleep.  Instead, he codes, he hacks, and he develops.  He strengthens MI-6’s defenses, he builds and destroys firewalls, and he reviews applications for potential Q branch employees.  He fields requests from M, spontaneously slips into R and Nala’s networks to check their progress on different tasks, and even takes a few easy missions from the comfort of his sofa.

 

Some nights, when Q does sleep, he wakes up choking, water sloshing in his lungs and ice in his bones.  When he’s not drowning, he’s in a room with no walls and no ceiling, with no space and no matter, floating through nothing and screaming at deaf ears.

 

His days at MI-6 are better.  He knows how to wall himself up when he’s not alone, knows how to pretend he’s okay when really, he’s still counting the hours, the minutes, sometimes the seconds when he’s not paying attention.  It’s not that he can’t function without James—he _can_.  Truthfully, he’s less distracted without him, completes missions without worrying overwhelmingly about his agents, and doesn’t have to argue over requests for exploding pens and night vision contact lenses and whatever other asinine things he’s come up with at the time.  His paperwork gets done almost on time, he sees Eve and Bill more often, and M is in Q branch less.  These last three are entirely to blame for the fact that he leaves MI-6 less often now, though, which means he sees his brothers less, his cats are loud about missing him, and his flat is starting to collect a little dust.

 

Eve sees through it all, but she politely doesn’t comment on it while they’re at work.  Bill pretends to be oblivious, though Q knows him better than that.  Only a few of the agents knew that something was going on in the first place, and the ones who didn’t don’t notice a change in their quartermaster other than he’s a little quieter, a little less sarcastic.

 

Really, Q should be grateful.  He’s a normal functioning member of society.  The world, as it were, makes sense.  He goes to work, he goes home, he has friends and a healthy relationship with his family, and sometimes, he even remembers to eat on his own.

 

He feels like he’s dying inside.

 

When he’d first started at MI-6, he’d been expecting adventure and thrill.  He can still remember now, years later, how disappointed he’d first been when he started, and how at peace he’d felt after that first meeting with James in the art gallery.  Here, finally, was what he’d been searching for.  Here were missions that left adrenaline rushing through his veins, that gave him something to be snarky about.  Here was a man he could go toe-to-toe with, and end up smiling on the other side, having both won and lost.  Here was someone he felt comfortable with, someone he could slowly learn to drop his walls for, someone that challenged him intellectually, physically, and morally.

 

Now, Q’s back to where he started.

 

Another month passes.

 

He works.  He saves lives.  He’s awake more than he sleeps.  He goes home to his cats, and he gets takeaway or just doesn’t eat.  There’s no point in cooking.  He compliments Nala on her brightly colored dresses, goes out for Italian with R, has a lengthy debate on which is better, _The Tudors_ or _Reign_ , with Ebele and Thema, and builds a pocketsize bomb so spectacular that he gives it to Adelaide for her next mission though she absolutely doesn’t need one.

 

He leaves _The Bone Clocks_ in the last place he set it down—on James’s bedside table after he’d stolen it to reread it—doesn’t watch the new season of _Game of Thrones_ when it comes out, and reads primarily dead, white, English poets in the hopes that a name will pop out at him for his new cat, which he hasn’t even begun to truly think about.

 

It’s been nine months, one week, six days, and four hours when Eve stalks into Q branch, snaps his laptop closed almost before he can jerk his fingers out from certain decapitation, and says, “Come on.  Time to stop procrastinating.”

 

“What exactly am I procrastinating?” Q asks as she comes around his desks to throw his parka at him and start shoving things into his bag.

 

“I’ve already cleared your afternoon schedule,” Eve continues, talking right over his confusion, “with both M and R, so no arguing, no ifs ands or buts about it.  First things first, we’re going to wander around London until we can find you a proper flat, then we’re going to stop in at the shelter to look for a lonely, at least two-year-old, cat for you to adopt and fulfill your dream as a crazy cat lady complete with hideous cardigans, and then we’re going out to celebrate.”

 

Q quirks an eyebrow at her as he tugs on his parka.  “What, pray tell, are we celebrating?” he asks.

 

“Honey,” Eve says sternly, sliding his laptop into his bag before she hands it over, “How old are you?”

 

“Thirty—” he pauses, frowning.

 

“Three,” Eve finishes for him, “Your birthday was two weeks ago.”

 

“No, it’s—what’s today?”

 

“Exactly,” Eve says, “Did you know there was cake and everything, but you’re such a despondent little shit that no one thought it would be appropriate to bring it out?”

 

“Despondent is hardly—” he tries.

 

“Nope,” Eve says, looping her arm through his and dragging him away from his desks, “We’re going to find you somewhere to live that isn’t haunting you, a cat to make you go home more often, and we’re going to talk about this.”

 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Q says firmly.

 

Eve laughs, loudly and confidently, and R ducks his eyes when they go by.  Q has half a mind to glare at him, but it would take far more effort than he’s willing to expend, so he dutifully trudges along with Eve.  They walk in silence, Q’s mind performing a rather intriguing act of self-sabotage, and Eve steering him along.  She glances at him every so often, whether to check that he’s still alive or awake, or to see if he’s even on this planet.  Q can’t be sure, and isn’t bothered either way.  Really, he’s not sure any of the three are true anymore.

 

He is alive.  His heart is beating, his blood is circulating—albeit poorly, even in the best of circumstances—his bones are unbroken, his muscles are stronger than they’ve been in years, and he’s still breathing.

 

He is awake.  His eyes are open, he knows the route they’re taking, his feet are moving, and he can feel where his fingers are wrapped around the strap of his bag.

 

He is on this planet.  Contrary to popular belief, he does exist on Earth, though, perhaps, on a superior plane.

 

“Why, then,” he says without preamble, when they’re in the lift, taking it underground to the parking garage, “does it feel like I’m not anything?”

 

Eve, ever a saint, doesn’t ask for any clarification before she says, “You love him.”

 

“Oh, stop that,” Q mutters, frowning.  He releases the strap of his bag to cross his arms in frustration.

 

“Listen, admit it or not, say it or not, continue to be a complete sociopath or not, but you do love James Bond.  Terribly, it seems.  And, even beyond that, however impossible it may sound, I think you were friends with him, too.  You didn’t just lose a boyfriend— _shut up_ ,” she adds when he starts to complain, “Give me something to call him if not that, then.”

 

Q sighs loudly.  The doors chime open on the lift, and he strides out.  Eve follows at his heel, though she isn’t loud with her footsteps, and Q doesn’t get the sense that’s she angry at all.  “Partner,” he settles on.

 

“Thank you,” she says.  “You didn’t just lose a partner, you lost a friend.  You lost someone that you talked to as often as you could.  When he was on British soil, or not otherwise occupied on a mission, you were talking to him.  Don’t make that face,” she says when Q starts to roll his eyes, “I know very well that you texted and called and flirted shamelessly over the comms, so yes, you were in pretty much constant communication with him.  And when you weren’t, he was off buying you goddamn gifts.  And that _book_.  How many times have you read that book?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Q says.

 

He stops at Eve’s car, refusing to look at her.

 

Surprisingly, Eve allows it.  She strides past him, tugs open her door, and gestures at the other side.  “Well?” she asks, “What are we getting for food?”

 

“What?” he asks.  His confusion bleeds out so that he looks up at her.  “I thought we were flat hunting,” he says.

 

“We are,” she says, “But it’s lunchtime, and I find it truly disturbing that you’ve rewired your stomach to _not_ yell at you around noon.”

 

“It probably does,” Q says, and gets into the car.

 

“Too busy saving the world, right,” Eve says as she gets in next to him.

 

“Are we done?” he asks.

 

Eve barks a laugh.  “Not even close,” she says.  Q snaps the seatbelt in place, and doesn’t take out his phone.  Eve blinks.  “Well,” she says slowly, “I mean—Q, we don’t have to talk about it.  I just—you’re not you, and I’m worried.”

 

He looks down at his hands, which are folding and unfurling together.  It’s an old, anxious habit he used to have as a child, constantly moving his hands, until he could finally start working with tools, and later, a keyboard, but he seems to be doing it more and more, seems to be ignoring his technology for just fidgeting with his own fingers.

 

“I know,” he says, barely a whisper.  Eve backs out of her spot.  “Okay.”

 

“What if he never comes back?” Eve asks.

 

“How do I stop waiting?” Q asks because if he’s going to do this, then he’s going to take a fucking sledgehammer to his walls.

 

Eve is quiet for long moments as she drives through the garage, passing several security measures, and then finally out into the light.  It’s beautiful out today, the sky a brilliant, startling blue, with only a few wisps of white clouds in the distance.  The sun is pale, and coolly warm in that autumn way that Q loves.  It occurs to him, rather abruptly, that he has no idea what month it is.

 

He presses the button to roll down his window, stops halfway, and leans his temple against the glass.  London floods in, cars trundling by, boots crunching leaves underfoot, the smog overwhelmed by apples and fresh donuts, newspapers swirling in the breeze.

 

Q breathes deeply.  He thinks it might be October.

 

When they’re out in London proper, with Eve driving like a normal citizen, she says, “I think you have to stop hoping he’ll come back.”

 

Q doesn’t nod, though he agrees.  He continues to breathe.

 

“I know that’s awful,” she continues, “to just give up hope on—well, on love, but if you want to move on, and I really think you need to, Q, you have to start believing that he’s gone, that he’s—well.”

 

“That he might be dead,” Q finishes.  He lifts his head from the window, rolls it back up, and asks, “Chips?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Eve says happily, and takes a turn at the next light.  They follow a well-worn route to one of their favorite seafood restaurants, get fish and chips to go, and sit outside with the pumpkins and spicy wind to eat.  Q starts researching flats nearby while Eve continues their conversation, “It’s possible that he’s not dead, but he’s been gone for how long?”

 

“Nine months, one week, six days, and five hours,” Q says without thinking, and then, “Fuck.”

 

Eve looks away when Q looks over at her.  She’s doing something complicated with her face, trying not to let her emotions bleed through, but Q knows how desperate he sounds.

 

“Well,” he says, “That wasn’t—meant to be a thing.”

 

“Maybe you need to get laid,” Eve says.

 

Q nearly chokes on a chip.

 

Eve is smiling terribly when he surfaces.  “Yes, I’m starting to believe in this theory more with each passing second,” she says, “This is a fantastic idea.”

 

“This is a wretched idea,” Q says, going back to his flat research.

 

“Fantastic,” she echoes, “This is exactly what you need.  A good shag or two, and you’ll be right as rain.  Of course, we’ll have to find someone with the level of skill of James, which is not impossible, I promise you.”  Q raises a disbelieving eyebrow at his phone.  “Come off it,” Eve says, “It isn’t.”

 

“Male stripper?” Q offers.

 

“As before, I can have that arranged,” she says, “ _Oh_.”

 

“You will _not_ —” Q says sternly, “—pay someone for this _wretched_ idea.”

 

“You’re no fun,” Eve grumbles.

 

“How about this one?” Q asks, handing her his phone.  Eve heaves a sigh so dramatic, Q is almost concerned for her.  “What?” he asks, bewildered.

 

“Stop looking at flats that James would like,” she says.

 

Q winces, and takes his phone back.  She isn’t wrong.  He keeps searching.

 

——

 

A week before Halloween, Q is working late when something starts vibrating.  He’s in the middle of taking apart a small hard drive that 0010 brought back from Cambodia, and doesn’t notice the vibrating at first.  Arjuna’s on with the skeleton crew, though, helping 004 a few time zones away, and Roland looks up at the sudden noise.

 

It’s quiet otherwise in the branch, just the tapping of keys and occasional bits of conversation between Arjuna and 004, the rest of them working on various projects.  The vibrating distracts Roland’s brother, Rashmi, a few seconds later, who looks up from the lines of code he’s typing out and immediately looks to Q.

 

“Dude, come on,” Ivo grumbles, reaching up to take out one of his headphones, “What the hell?”

 

“Tell me that’s not an impending explosion,” Roland says.

 

“Vibrating countdown?” Rashmi says disbelievingly, “That seems counterproductive.”

 

“Or sneaky,” Ivo says around a yawn.  He reaches for his mug, frowns when he finds it empty, and gets up to make another round of coffee.  He’s watching the water drip tiredly while the brothers bounce theories off one another when he says, “Oh, _duh_.  Phone.”

 

“Phone,” Rashmi agrees, “Q.”

 

Q keeps typing.  He’s passed the first three layers of security, and almost under the fourth, and last, but there’s a bit of firewall fighting back at him, rerouting him every few seconds.  He’s got both his headphones in, and when Rashmi gets close enough, he can hear the thundering bass beneath something louder and vibrant.

 

“Q,” he says, and taps his desk.

 

Q keeps typing.

 

Rashmi sighs, and turns to face his brother and Ivo.  Julian has joined them now, leaning his chin into his hand as he patiently waits for them to return to the code they’re working on.  “Don’t wave in front of his screen,” he says.

 

“Duh,” Rashmi says, “He almost broke a hip last time.”

 

Roland snorts.  “He’s not that old, asshole.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Rashmi retorts.

 

“R’s in his thirties,” Ivo counters.

 

“He’s the only one,” Rashmi says, “What else?”

 

“Text him,” Ivo says, and then, “Shut up.  Can you—yeah, chat alert.”

 

Roland fires off a quick message to Q, who doesn’t react at all.  Rashmi lifts his eyebrows, but Roland shakes his head.  “He must have a block on, or he’s just ignoring it.  How mad do you think he’ll be if we just look for it?”

 

Rashmi turns back to the desk, looking around.  In Q’s general vicinity, there’s a teetering stack of paperwork, a dismantled gun, a cold soldering iron still resting against a sponge, and several pairs of pliers.  His other desks are filled with various computer parts, and whole laptops themselves, as well as other, small projects that he’s working on.  The monitors behind him are displaying 004’s mission on one screen and cameras for MI-6 on the other two.  There doesn’t seem to be a phone or his messenger bag anywhere in sight.

 

Rashmi shrugs, and steps up into Q’s space, starting to look under the desks.

 

“We could explode something,” Julian says unhelpfully.

 

“Yes,” Ivo agrees, “He usually responds to explosions.”

 

Roland frowns, but says, “A small one.”

 

Immediately, Julian’s up and searching for something to blow up while Rashmi continues to look for his phone.  The vibrating stops briefly, and then starts up again.  “Whoever it is, they’re clearly angry with him for not answering.”

 

“Maybe it’s one of his brothers,” Roland says.

 

“He has brothers?” Ivo asks incredulously, “ _Plural_?”

 

“Hm,” Roland says, “I’m not sure if that’s public knowledge or not, come to think of it.”

 

“Plural,” Ivo says, “Seriously?”

 

“Three, I think?” Rashmi guesses before he disappears behind a desk.

 

“Shit, that must be interesting,” Ivo says.

 

“What in the blazes—” Arjuna surfaces as he yanks his headphones out and turns toward them, “What the hell are you doing?”

 

“Q’s phone is ringing,” Roland says.

 

“I’m exploding a pen,” Julian says.

 

Rashmi appears, shaking his head in sync with Ivo and Roland.  “Terrible idea,” Ivo says, “He’s still pissed about that one Laia made.  Blow up the stapler.”

 

“Staples,” Julian and Roland say at the same time.

 

“Tape dispenser,” Rashmi says.

 

“ _Guys_ ,” Arjuna says sternly, “Just—oh.”  He spots Q, still buried deep in the last layer of security.

 

“Precisely,” Roland says, and then, “Anything?”

 

“Okay, it’s definitely somewhere on these,” Rashmi says, turning away from Q and to the desks behind him.  There are two pushed together beneath the monitors, opposite his main one.

 

“Where’s his bag?” Arjuna asks.

 

“How’s 004?” Roland asks.

 

“Told me she wouldn’t need further assistance, and she could bloody well figure out how to board a plane on her own,” he mutters.

 

“Miserable cow,” Julian says.

 

“Nope,” Q says.  They all jump, turning to face him as Q tugs out one of his headphones.  “Don’t ever call her that again,” he continues, flashing Julian a quick glare, “I don’t care how unfriendly she is in comparison to the double oh’s, we’re lucky the rest of them aren’t like that.  Considering they’re all a bunch of sodding— _what_ ,” he adds when he turns and spots Rashmi, “are you doing?”

 

“Your phone is vibrating,” he says quickly, “It’s annoying.”

 

Q gives him a withering glare, so Rashmi quickly steps out of his station again, going back to his own desk.  Q rubs one of his eyebrows tiredly, rolls his shoulders until his spine cracks, and gets up, going over to where his jacket has been dumped carelessly on a heap of scrap metal.  Beneath it is his bag, and subsequently, his vibrating phone.  He makes a face at the screen before answering the call.

 

When he turns, and they’re all still watching him, he says, “Has that code finished itself?” and they scramble to get back to work.

 

“It’s—late?” he guesses by way of greeting.

 

“Early,” Shae says, “Or late, I don’t know.  Good morning.  Evening?  The hell time is it, anyway?”

 

Q rubs at one of his eyes, dislodging his glasses, and goes over to his laptop to squint at it.  “2AM,” he mumbles, “Why are you up?  Why are you calling me?”

 

“Are you still at work?” Shae asks, “That’s abhorrent.”

 

“Five points.”  Shae hums distractedly, and then there’s a soft sound like a muffled yawn.  “Oh,” Q says, “How’s my favorite nephew?”

 

“He’s your only nephew,” Shae says, “He was having a nightmare.”

 

“So you called me?”

 

“Wow, you need to go to bed.  Tomorrow’s Sunday.  Are you coming over?”

 

“Sunday,” Q repeats, and squints at his laptop again, which is busy scanning for viruses on the hard drive before it starts copying onto one of his own.  “It’s Sunday already?”

 

“Jesus,” Shae mumbles, “Rowan.  Wake up.  For, like, three minutes, come on.”

 

“Fine,” Q says, and leaves his station to amble over toward the tea station, “Awake, I am.  Are you guys doing anything Halloween night?”

 

“Yes,” Shae says, “Half why I’m calling.  Are you?  Do you want to come trick or treating with the kids?”

 

Q hums.  He hasn’t seen everyone in so long, it might be nice to spend the night with them.  He’s seen his brothers here and there, and some of his nieces and nephews, but not all of them together in a few months.  “Sure,” he settles on, “Barring anything obnoxious.”

 

“I’ll write to the Queen and ask her to withhold any terrorist attacks.”

 

“Her Majesty,” Q says as he fumbles around until he finds a tea that’s only got enough caffeine to get him home, but not enough to keep him awake, “does not barter with terrorists.”

 

“Are you calling me a terrorist?”

 

“I loathe this word,” Q says, “New one.”

 

“What are you working on so late?” Shae asks.

 

“Hard drive,” Q says, “Someone brought me a present to break into.”

 

“Wasn’t that new agent that’s got a thing for you, was it?” Shae teases, “What’s his name?  _Brad_ ley?”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Q mutters, “He’s harmless.”

 

“For now,” Shae says, “Just make sure he knows where his place is.”

 

“He has a wife,” Q says evenly, tucking the phone between ear and shoulder as he starts pouring water into his mug, “and children.  Plural?  I’m not sure.  I haven’t finished redacting his file yet.”

 

“Wait, what?” Shae says, a little louder than he probably means to.  “Your boss doesn’t give you their full files?  _Wait_.  Ro.  Are you hacking into your own company?  Dude.”

 

“It’s fine,” Q says tiredly.  He turns, and watches everyone’s heads duck back behind their laptops.  He sighs, and strides back over to his desk.  “Tomorrow,” Q says.

 

“You’re trying to get off the line,” Shae accuses.

 

Q sets his mug down, drops into his chair, and starts infecting everyone’s computer, with the exception of Arjuna, with a virus remotely.  “I need to finish up one last thing, and then I’m going home, so yes, I’m trying to get you off the line.”

  
“It’s late,” Shae says, and there are a dozen other things lurking in that one statement that Q won’t acknowledge, and that his brothers have stopped trying to pick at, “Are you taking the tube?”

 

“I’ll be fine, Shae,” he says as Roland swears softly.  He puts his laptop into a secure hibernation so that it can keep scanning and copying, and stands back up.  After a long sip of tea, he says, “I can text you when I get home, if it makes you feel better.”

 

“It would,” Shae says, “Tomorrow?”

 

“Tomorrow.  I’ll be there at 10, yeah?”

 

“And not a second late,” Shae says, “Goodnight, Rowan.”

 

“Goodnight, Shae,” he says, “Given Reagan a kiss for me.”

 

“And disrupt his sleep?  You’re a menace,” Shae says before he hangs up.  Q smiles, and goes to tug on his parka.

 

“Q?” Roland says hopefully.

 

“You brought this upon yourselves,” he says, looping his messenger bag over his head, “I’ll be unavailable in the morning, but if something terrible comes up, R can reach me.”

 

He leaves without another word, his minions muttering as he goes about what an evil overlord he is, and if he grins as he steps into the lift, he blames it on the caffeine in his tea.

 

——

 

On Halloween morning, James discovers he’s to be the sacrifice for a ritualistic circle.  He keeps his face impassive, his muscles relaxed, his eyes cold and uninterested, but he’s honestly taken aback upon learning that it’s _Halloween_.  He starts counting as his captor watches him with narrowed eyes, and comes to the abhorrent conclusion that he’s been in Iceland for just over ten months.

 

When he doesn’t respond to this information after several long minutes, his captor finally gives up, leaving him in the damp, dark cell once more.  As soon as the grating sound of the door scraping over cracked concrete stops echoing, he gets up and starts stretching.

 

It’s high time he escaped this hellhole.

 

——

 

Q walks into his branch at 6AM, and almost walks back out.

 

For one, he’s balancing two stacks of drinks in one hand, and they’re from _Starbucks_.  He feels like a traitor just for having walked in there, but he’s also holding a travel mug from his favorite café, so he thinks it might cancel out.  Eight different people spring out of their chairs when he comes in, though, and he’s forced to just stand still and weather their hurricane of excitement and thank you’s and grabbing hands.

 

For two, the entire branch has been decorated.  Every desk has either fluffy white spider webbing, plastic creepy crawlies, or bones that look a little too real for comfort.  There are black and orange streamers looped along the ceiling, and he doesn’t even want to ask how they got up there.  A fog machine in the back of the branch occasionally unfurls a fuzzy mist at them, which they’ve rigged to trickle into the floor vents so it doesn’t distract too much.  There appears to be _confetti_ on his desks, a very human-looking skull where his laptop usually sits, and several boxes of apple cider donuts teetering precariously on the edge of the tea station.  All of that doesn’t even touch upon the fact that each of his employees has dressed up, which is just—going to give him a headache.

 

For three, Nala is currently standing in front of him, dressed like Cleopatra, her dreadlocks spray painted _gold_ —or dyed, he’s really not sure anymore—smiling at him like he’s given her something more than coffee.

 

“Yes?” he asks.

 

“Happy Halloween,” she says, and holds out her hand.  Dangling from her fingers is a small bag with glittery skulls and cats dashed across, orange tissue paper poking out of the top.

 

“Did you arrange all this?” he asks, not taking the bag from her.

 

“Listen, I know what you’re going to say, but—”

 

“It’s nice,” Q interrupts, “Thank you.”

 

“It’s just candy,” she says, and swings the bag.

 

Q sighs, and takes it.  “I hope there will be no trick or treating.  I already have to suffer that with a horde of children tonight.”

 

“Honestly, Q,” Nala says, beaming again, “That would just be silly.  Trying to arrange something like that with those monkeys—” she gestures vaguely at the ceiling, “—would be utter chaos.  How’s the new place?”

 

“Not ready for your schemes yet,” Q says, starting to walk into the branch proper.  Nala falls into step next to him.

 

“Well, stop stalling on unpacking so we can throw you a proper home warming.”

 

“Absolutely not,” Q says dejectedly.

  
“It’s happening, whether you approve it or not.  Right, R?”

 

“Whatever she says,” R says distractedly.

 

“That doesn’t count,” Q says, and steps away toward his desks before Nala can persist.  Thankfully, she doesn’t follow, and he’s left in peace to upend his person on his station.

 

No one pays him any mind.  There’s not a lot to do today.  They only have a few agents in the field, a handful on active leave after particularly gruesome missions, and the rest taking a short breather in between assignments.  The agents in the field are all on reconnaissance or in time zones that haven’t quite woken up yet, so the hum of Q branch is just scattered conversation about costumes and plans for the night.  Only a few people are working, and while Q would normally hustle the rest of them back to work, he lets them have their moment.

 

In the last month or so, things have more or less returned to their former glory.  He’s been careful not to let his sorrow follow him to work, and has succeeded wholly.  Regardless, there are still people who knew, people who keep expecting him to break.  Nala is the worst and best of them, always offering him uncertain smiles at the same time she keeps his mug full.  R reacts by trying to fix him up with more of his friends until Q quietly tells him that he’d rather just be alone.  Keira reacts by reminding him to eat and check in on his cats.

 

The double oh’s continue to treat him as though nothing has happened, which he prefers above all else.  He is not fragile, and he will not break here.  He leaves that for the solitude of his flat, and now, with that old place firmly in his past, Q doesn’t break at all.  His walls are twofold—an inner layer of hard and unyielding brick, and an outer layer of fierce and reinforced steel.  He won’t come out from behind them, not here, not there, not at all and never again.

 

Eve occasionally lets him know that this is unhealthy, and he usually just sips his tea snobbishly at her.

 

The new flat is a bit farther from MI-6, but closer to the water and without as much hubbub in the streets.  It’s larger, and yet simpler, and he adores it.  He hasn’t unpacked entirely yet, though he keeps promising his branch that he will so that they can gather in fashion.  A third cat has not happened yet, though he imagines it’s in his near future.

 

He’s moving on.  He’s going to be okay.  He’s even convinced his brain to stop counting the hours.  Soon, he’ll learn how to stop counting the days, maybe even the weeks.  He’s not sure he’ll ever stop counting the months.

 

It’s been just over ten since the last time he saw James, eight since he spoke to him, and he doesn’t even know if he’s alive or dead.

 

“Alright,” R says.  Q peers over the top of his laptop, smiles when he sees that R is holding a donut out to him, and straightens as he takes it.  “I have good news and bad news,” R continues.

 

Q bites into the donut, shoulders dropping happily.  “Yeah, I know,” R says, setting another donut down next to his keyboard on top of a black napkin.  “Bad news?”

 

“If it’s that haunted house festival Arjuna and Nala have roped the entire branch into attending this weekend, I’ve already accepted the invite on pain of death,” Q says, reaching for his tea.

 

“It correlates,” R says, brandishing half of a donut at the mug.  It does, indeed.  It’s not his usual Earl Grey, but instead a tasteful apple and cinnamon blend that has him humming and taking another sip.  His coffee can wait until later.  “Bad news,” R says before taking a bite of his donut.  He regards Q as he chews, swallows, and says, “004 just returned.”

 

“I don’t see how this is bad news,” Q says, “Is she injured?”

 

R sniffs, takes another bite of his donut, and says, “ _She_ isn’t.”

 

Q’s stomach drops.  “The car?” he asks, fear edging into his voice.  R’s eyebrows go up.  “How much of it is left?” he asks.  R’s eyebrows, impossibly, skyrocket closer to his hairline.  “Worse than the Martin after Skyfall?”

 

R snorts, “That’s not possible.  We only got a freaking steering wheel back from that and a deflated rear tire.  No, she’s at least got most of the frame intact.  Well.  Some.  _Well_.  A bit.  It’s all there, just not—it’s magnificent, really, that she even managed to get it back at all.”

 

“And the good news?” Q asks, almost afraid.

 

R’s grin is positively devilish.  “It’s already in the lab if you want to go hack it to pieces.”

 

“Call me if anything,” Q says, already getting up.  R nods once, turning away.  Q grabs his phone, his coffee, and his tea, donut hooked around one of his fingers.  “And R,” he says as he comes around his desks.  R pauses, turning halfway.  “Thank you.”  R merely flashes him one of his brilliant smiles, rows of white teeth wrinkling his olive skin, and returns to his desk, where he’s hoarding more donuts, and where Nala is waiting to discuss a prototype with him.

 

Q leaves his branch, follows the short hallway down to his lab, and steps inside, inhaling the scent of grease and metal and gunpowder.  This, he thinks, could possibly be home.

 

He should have fucking known it wouldn’t last.

 

——

 

When he gets back to MI-6 and ultimately has to fill out a mountain of paperwork entailing this horrible mission in Iceland, James decides he’s going to describe his escape as such: using the unruly hair from his beard, he roped two sea turtles together, and sailed back to England.

 

He’s not going to tell them that he has eight confirmed kills from that escape alone.

 

He’s not going to tell them that he snapped a woman’s femur in half, or that he knows, intimately, what a spine breaking feels like, or that his exhausted body started to shake after the sixth one.

 

He’s not going to tell them that he did not blow up the building intentionally, but that he did set fire to the cell they kept him in, and that might have triggered the explosion that swelled across the new morning.

 

He’s not going to tell them that he stole a small, private plane almost out of someone’s backyard, as well as the coffee from just inside their kitchen window and a handful of tomatoes from their garden.

 

He’s not going to tell them he also stole a potted plant sitting on the back porch.

 

He’s not going to tell them that he made it to London in under three hours, crash-landed the plane because it was almost out of fuel and nowhere near made to go that fast, stole a government car idling at the airport, and broke every possible road law, and possibly a few not yet invented, only to find out that his flat—his _home_ —was gone.

 

All it took was a cursory conversation with the building owner’s daughter, who was still working the front door on weekdays, and was clearly ready to call the police just at the sight of him, to inform him that Q had moved.

 

He’s not going to tell them that he left the stolen car outside the building, walked to the nearest station, and took the tube to MI-6.

 

He’s not going to tell them that his heart was trying to rip its way out from beneath his ribs, claw out of his chest, and throw itself to certain death the entire way there.

 

He’s not going to tell them that his hands shake when he finally breaks into MI-6.

 

His knees also shake, as do his shoulders, his jaw, his breaths.  He’s bone tired in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time, and he just wants this to be over.  He wants to find Q, to find out if he has a home or not anymore, and if not, he wants to drink himself to death on an island somewhere far, far away.

 

When he breaks into MI-6, he doesn’t trip any alarms.  He does, however, nearly cause two identical heart attacks when he climbs out of one of the floor vents in the main room.  Two women scream, and then there are several guns pointed at him.

 

He climbs out of the floor vent, turns around despite the shouted warnings to lift his hands and _stop bloody moving_ , and smirks when he sees Eve.  She’s wearing black, billowing pants with a high waist, a long sleeve, burnt orange top, heels with little skulls on them, and a twisted smile that promises torture.

 

“The beard doesn’t suit you,” is the first thing she says.

 

A few guns falter, and then drop.

 

James shrugs one shoulder.  The beard is the least of his problems right now.  His clothes are bloody and torn, covered in ash and dirt and grime, as well as ill-fitting.  He thinks the sole of one of his boots is about to come loose, his eyes are bloodshot, he’s sporting a map of ugly bruises, and he’s supposed to be dead.

 

“You’ve picked an appropriate day for resurrection, though,” Eve continues.

 

James doesn’t bother attempting to grin at her.  The rest of the guns have dropped.  He looks over his shoulder, spots the lift, and looks back up at Eve.  “Where is he?” he asks.

 

Eve’s twisted smile falters, and something buried deep, something uglier than his bruises flickers across her face.  “I will kill you,” she says, “Slowly.”

 

“I know,” James says because he does.  Because as strong as Q is, there’s no way this was easy.  There’s no way he got through his unscathed.

 

Eve’s chin lifts just so, juts toward the lift.  “I’ll let M know he can schedule a debrief with you.”

 

James nods once, curt, and strides away.

 

He does not run.

 

He does not show his hand.

 

Inside the lift, he closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cool metal, and tries to breathe.

 

——

 

“What the _fuck_?”

 

Nala looks up, frowning.  003, waiting patiently as Nala assembles his gun, follows her gaze to R.  “What is it?” she asks R, whose back is to her.  He’d been tracking some information for 0011, but the sound of him typing has careened to a halt.

 

“ _How_ —what—fucking _hell_.”  He fingers start typing again, and one of the main screens shift.  Nala looks over, her frown deepening as the cameras come up, showing different places in MI-6.

 

“What—” she starts to ask, and then stops, her eyes going wide.  “No,” she says, already turning, “No, no, no.”

 

She’s the first one that sees him.

 

The doors to Q branch shush open, and James Bond walks through.  He scans the room quick, predatorily, sharp blue eyes narrowing minutely at Q’s empty station.  He flicks his gaze to Nala even as other minions start to turn.

 

“007,” she says, and Luis turns abruptly, expression bleeding his disbelief.

 

“Bond,” he says, relief in his voice.

 

He walks slowly, purposefully.  R, unfrozen, steps out from behind his desk, and says, “You’re alive?”  He frames it like it’s a question, like he may be a ghost, like this is all some elaborate Halloween prank.

 

“Where is he?” James asks.

 

“No,” Nala whispers.

 

The doors open again, preceding their fearless leader, attention focused on a blueprint on his tablet.  Nala watches him glance up, find R, and look back down.  She watches his mouth open as he starts to form a question, watches his brain catch up with his body, watches his feet stumble to a stop.  She swears she can hear the way his heart staggers and threatens to do the same.

 

James sees it on R’s face, and turns back toward the doors.  There are only a few feet between them, but the atmosphere that bleeds out from them turns the world cold, turns it upside down and wrenches it inside out, twists and warps and destroys the space until it feels like hundreds of acres between them.

 

Q’s hands wrap tighter around his tablet, the blueprint blurring as tears try to creep into his eyes.  He taps at his walls, finds that they’re still stable, and swallows everything down—his sorrow, anger, fear, all of it—before he looks up.

 

“Did you move?” is the first goddamn thing James asks him.

 

Q bristles.  “I did,” he says, rolling his shoulders back so that they sit square and defiant.  He sniffs once, and asks, “Did you grow a beard?”

 

“Blending in with the locals,” James says.

 

“I hear they’re quite finicky about suave men in Iceland,” Q says.  His tone suggests he’d like to string James up by his thumbs and leave him hanging for an indefinite amount of time.

 

“What with all the goats and hard labor,” James agrees.

 

Q swallows, though his throat is dry, and his bones are shaking, and he wants to give up, give in, give out.  “And the plants?” he asks.

 

James valiantly tries to fight a smirk, but he’s too tired and too wound up, and it comes out, crooked and dashing and doing terrible things to Q’s insides.  He reaches into his jacket, where he secured his tiny potted plant, and produces a small bundle of lemongrass.  “It has catnip qualities,” he says.

 

“R’s allergic,” Q says.

 

“Do _not_ rope me into this,” R says quickly.

 

Q scowls, releases his tablet from his death grip, and tucks it under his arm before he starts walking.  James tries to meet him halfway, but Q steps out of his path, says, “Glad to see you’ve returned in one piece, 007.  I fear the same is not to be said for your Walther?  Pity,” and walks right past him up to his desks.

 

Nala blinks, her mouth dropping open.  She stares at James’s tense shoulders, and then swivels to look at Q, who is effectively hiding every possible thing he might be feeling as he sets his tablet down and goes over to fill his mug at the tea station.

 

James doesn’t move until he hears the telltale sound of Q setting his mug down on his desk, and then he pivots, takes long, fluid strides to cross the room in the space of a heartbeat, and stops only when he’s reached Q.  A younger Bond might have shrugged and called it a wash, left without a fight.  An angrier Bond might have loomed over Q, made his presence overwhelming and unavoidable.  A harder Bond might have snapped something awful at him, or even tried to make a lewd joke.

 

James is none of these anymore.  He is forty-three now, has knees that creak, a hip that grumbles sometimes, too many scars and bullet wounds and haunting memories, and, for the first time since Vesper, he doesn’t want to be alone.

 

And thus, when Q looks up at him, when he lifts a hand to adjust his glasses and swallows again, when he tries not to let James see how much he’s hurting, it’s all for naught because James is visibly defeated.  His whole posture is slumped, his mouth an uneven line, his face open and his eyes full of all the things he doesn’t know how to say.  “Please,” he says softly, “I’m so sorry.”

 

He sets his hand on the desk, taps his fingers gently there, and starts to retreat after a breath of silence when Q’s hand closes over his own, loosely at first, and then tighter, holding onto him.

 

“Has it been too long?” James asks.

 

Q inhales, opens his mouth, and smiles instead.  It’s an easy, Sunday morning smile, and it warms every bone in James’s body.  He straightens a little, tries not to fall into this unraveling hope inside him, and fails utterly when Q says, “Welcome home.”

 

“Thank you,” James whispers.

 

Q releases his hand, clears his throat, and steps to the side, looking out at his stunned employees.  At once, they scramble to pretend they’ve been busy, and Q shakes his head.  “Arjuna, your desk is on fire,” he says evenly.

 

“That it is,” Arjuna says.

 

“Nala, once you’ve—”

 

Nala starts clapping.

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Q mutters, and drops into his seat, rolling toward his laptop.  The rest of the branch joins her, although some of them absolutely refuse to meet Q’s gaze.  Q logs into his laptop as James starts moving, and he half expects him to prowl until he steps up behind Q’s desk and comes to stand just behind him.  Q glances at R, who honest to god gives him a thumbs up, and turns in his chair as the applause starts to die down.  “Ah,” Q says as James tries to step closer, “I vetoed workplace indecency.”

 

“I don’t give a damn,” James says, and kisses him.

 

It’s a bit like coming to leisurely, bathed in the late spring warmth of golden sunshine, with a cat purring by your head and a cup of tea already steaming nearby, the delicious scent of breakfast mingling with the sigh of the water outside.

 

That is, to say, that it’s like waking up, like he’s been asleep this whole time, and this is his first moment of clarity in ten months.

 

When James releases him, one hand wrapped possessively around Q’s jaw, he licks his bottom lip and draws it in to bite at it.  He opens his eyes to find James still close, and smiling like he’s swallowed stardust.  “Q,” he says.  His voice is full and steady and everything Q’s been missing.

 

“James,” he says.  He hums, leans into his hand a little.  “I don’t like the beard,” he says.

 

“You and me both,” James says.

 

Though they’re still at MI-6, in Q branch, no less, Q leans up, asking, and James kisses him a second time, slower than before, the whisper of his mouth against Q’s saying all the things neither of them can, or are willing to hear.

 

James tastes like smoke and copper and gunpowder, gasoline and terrible coffee and the sharp snap of a cold breeze.  He tastes like all the things Q has been trying to erase from his life, and he swallows all of it greedily.

 

It’s Q that pulls back this time, tips out of James’s hand, and leans back in his seat.  James lingers only a breath longer before he straightens, tucking his hands in his pockets.  His gaze shifts minutely, watches one of Q’s screens on his laptop.  “M’s on his way down,” he says.

 

“Precisely,” Q says.  He reaches behind him for his phone, taps across it violently with his thumbs, and adds, “I’ve sent you the new address.  I haven’t unpacked much yet.”

 

“When did you move?” James asks.  Q turns to fish a phone out of one of his drawers, whose screen is lit up, and starts typing on that one, as well.

 

“Only a few weeks ago,” Q says before he hands him the phone, “You’ll have access by the time you get there.”

 

“Shall I assume you haven’t food shopped in those few weeks?” James asks.  Q lifts an eyebrow without looking at him, still typing on his phone.  James opens the message on his new phone, smiles even though it’s nothing more than a jumble of words and numbers, but it’s from Q, who’s speaking to him, who didn’t give up on him, who _wants_ him here.

 

“Please shower before you do any shopping,” Q says, “And change.”  His mouth twitches.  He finishes typing, looks up, and adds, “And please don’t tell Moneypenny that I’ve kept all your things, but they’re in a box in the bedroom closet.”

 

“One last thing?” James asks, watching M exit the lift.

 

“There’s an emergency door behind the plants,” Q says, and turns back to his laptop to make himself look busy.

 

James is gone before M even reaches the doors.

 

——

 

When James arrives at Q’s new flat, it’s after an exorbitant amount of time spent in the back of a cab and with a certain level of frustration that he hopes to demolish by answering Eve’s thirteen messages with a phone call.

 

“James _Bond_ ,” she snaps when she picks up.  The phone has barely had time to ring, and her voice is lower than he was expecting, like she’s at her desk, trying not to be overheard by M.

 

“Moneypenny,” he says as he climbs the steps to the front door of Q’s new building.  He nudges open the door, checks for added security measures in the small mailroom and grins when he finds a few, and then pushes through another door into the lobby.

 

A man, younger than Q, but exquisitely handsome, flashes a brilliant smile James’s way as he straightens in his seat behind the front desk.  He finds the smile impressive considering how he looks, and likely smells, particularly because it doesn’t falter when James doesn’t immediately step up to the desk.

 

“Moneypenny,” he cuts off Eve’s building tirade, “Might we pause for a moment, and then perhaps restart?”

 

“You weren’t even listening?” Eve seethes.

 

“Good afternoon, sir,” the young man says, “Mister Bond, I presume?  He asked me to let you know it’s the third floor, as before.  He said a key wouldn’t be necessary?”  This, finally, shows his uncertainty.

 

“Thank you,” James says, and makes for the stairs at the right of the desk.  He ignores the quick comment about the lift, and starts climbing.  “Goodness,” he says as he lifts the phone back to his ear, “This place is a tad bit posher than the last one.  Ostentatious, even for Q.”

 

“He likes the location and the security,” Eve says sharply, “So don’t fuck this up with your temperament.”

 

“My temperament?” James echoes, reaching the second floor, “Why, Moneypenny, you wound me.”

 

“Five minutes?  That’s all he gets?  You’ve been gone for _ten fucking months_ , James, and you hang out in Q branch for _five minutes_?”

 

“Do give M my best, and let him know I’ll be in for debriefing at some point.”

 

“James!”  She’s angrier than James has ever heard her, and a small part of him considers just hanging up on her.

 

Instead, he says, “Eve.”

 

“The audacity, honestly,” she snarls.  He waits, remaining silent as he climbs the last flight of stairs and stops on the third landing.  The door looks like every other one he’s passed.  Eve sighs softly on the other line.  “I know,” she says, “I know.  This was to be expected.  I haven’t the faintest why I thought it might be different, but go right ahead and trod across his heart again.”

 

James steps up to the door, lets the peephole read his retina, flattens his hand above the handle, and listens to the locks disengage on the other side.  When the door shushes open gently, he says, “I’m not going to flatter that with a response,” and hangs up.

 

He steps just inside, toes the door shut behind him, and lets the lullaby of the locks reengaging remind him that this is Q’s home— _his_ home again, finally—as he looks out at a world he doesn’t know.  From his vantage point, all he can see is the length of the hallway and an open, uncertain space beyond.  The lights here are soft and warm, casting long shadows across the walls, which are a rainy day grey.  There’s a door to his immediate right, which reveals itself as a full bathroom, and another to his immediate left, which is a small storage closet, already holding some of Q’s ugly jackets and scarves.  A set of double doors a few paces farther down reveal the washing, and then the rest of the flat is just around a corner which makes him want to draw his gun.

 

What he wants is a shower, a shave, and new clothes before exploring, and he’s about to dismiss that notion when Joyce, her grey fur darker in the wane light, walks out of the open doorway directly across from him, at the end of the wall on his left, and sits down in front of it, her green eyes fixed on James.  He refrains from thanking her out loud, though he does bend down to scratch between her ears before he pushes the door further open.

 

Keats, wound tightly into a ball, twitches one black ear and then lifts his head, swiveling his gaze toward the door.  He meows theatrically, and tucks his head back beneath his paws.  James exhales a laugh.

 

Already, just from the bedroom, he likes this flat more than the old one.  Their massive bed is set in the middle, against a wall which sports the periodic table of elements over the headboard.  The bed itself is a tangled mess—the dark grey duvet is almost entirely on the floor, one of the pillows _is_ on the floor, and Keats has pulled the sheets into a little nest.  A long shelving unit sits opposite the bed, packed with books, framed pictures, candles, and forgotten mugs of tea.  Unsurprisingly, where James had once tried to persuade Q into getting a television, there’s a pile of scrap metal and a project that he thinks was left there by accident.  He checks to make sure nothing is smoking, and then crosses over to the glass doors on the other side of the room.  They open up onto a private balcony, which Q has already furnished with an elephant ear plant, and which James spends a moment on, eyes closed to the cold sun.

 

Joyce flicks her tail at his pant leg, effectively herding him back into the bedroom, and he makes a beeline for the attached bathroom.  It’s a far cry from the small shower and single vanity he’s accustomed to, and he starts disrobing quickly.  After washing the grime and blood and months off of him, James finds his shaving kit tucked neatly into one of the shelves beneath the sink closest to the door, and smiles fondly.  He’d been so worried that Q would have moved on when Q was quite busy doing exactly the opposite.  He takes his time getting rid of the offending beard, and when he steps back, admiring his new old face in the mirror, his bones begin to settle.

 

True to his word, there’s a box of his clothes in the back of the closet, which is attached to the bathroom.  He tugs on a pair of light grey sweats that Q had been absolutely astonished by, pulls a pale blue shirt over his head, and pads barefoot out of the closet, through the bathroom, and out of the bedroom.  The front entrance is in his direct line of sight, and the rest sprawls out easily before him.

 

Though it’s been furnished—a sofa and two armchairs, too many pillows, a coffee table littered with tools and gadgets, and an entertainment center to rival any gamer’s all arranged off to the left—the bookshelves along the farthest wall are empty, and there’s a pile of boxes sitting in front of them.  Ignoring the kitchen for now, which he needs to walk past to get to the boxes, James takes a moment to peruse them.  They’re mostly books, but one contains Q’s records, and he busies himself setting up the record player, filing away his records in a system he’s confident Q will change, and then puts on something at random, smiling at Joyce when he finds her sitting on the kitchen table, watching him closely.

 

He leaves the boxed books for now, and goes over to peer out the glass doors at a corner balcony outfitted with comfortable chairs and a small table.  James puts his back to the doors to take stock of the kitchen.  It’s far bigger than what they had before, with long, black countertops, excellent lighting, and a long, marble unattached island with a sink opposite the kitchen proper.  There even appears to be a well-stocked liquor cabinet just next to the refrigerator, though James leaves it for later consideration as he crosses the open space to a door next to the kitchen.

 

Beyond, in what was likely intended to be a guest room, Q’s transformed it into a workspace, his large desk covered in wires, electronics, and a secondary laptop, other monitors scattered around it.  The shelves in here are also bare, though these boxed books are all on engineering, mathematics, physics, and the like.  There’s another walk-in closet that connects to the bathroom accessible from the front hall, and he very nearly calls Q to poke fun at him being well off enough to afford this incredible place, but not enough to stop wearing tattered, embarrassingly ugly jumpers.

 

James steps into the workshop fully, rummaging around until he can dig up an earpiece, and heads back out into the main room, turning toward the empty bookshelves and boxed books.  He listens to the telltale signs of Q’s technology coming alive as he pauses at the island to pet Joyce absentmindedly.  When, finally, the sound of keys clacking filters out into his left ear, James’s shoulders drop, relaxing.

 

“Mm,” Q hums distractedly, “One moment.”

 

Even just that makes him pause.  He’s _home_.  With Q’s voice in his ear, Joyce trying to trip him as she jumps down and does figure eights around his legs, and a stack of boxes to unpack, every muscle in his body starts to release the tension he’s been carrying around for the last ten months.

 

Joyce smashes her head against his shin, and he laughs softly, leaning down to scoop her up.  “Where shall we start, then?” he asks her, carrying her over to the boxes.

 

“Oh, not the books,” Q says, “They’re a mess.”

 

“Contrary to popular belief, I am competent with the alphabet.”

 

“In several languages, no doubt,” Q muses.

 

James sets Joyce down on one of the boxes.  “And your alphabet, Q?  Have you spoken to Eve?  And that doorman.”

 

“Thank you, R.  No, you may not— _honestly_.  I’m not going to call you Gomez, so stop—no— _R_.”  There’s a distinct cackle on the other line, and James smirks as he tears open a box.  “I hate Halloween,” Q mutters, “Every second of it.”

 

“Pity I don’t still have that suit.”

 

“Do _not_ bring up the skeleton suit right now.  Yes, I have spoken to Eve.  Several times.  She refuses to listen, and continues to believe that I’m one of those collapsible wooden dolls that’s just going to— _just because it’s Halloween doesn’t mean there needs to be constant fire!  Oh_.  Oh.  Push it a little farther, and I’ll redirect the sprinklers to soak _just you_.”

 

“Sounds like mayhem over there,” James says as he starts taking books out, setting them on the floor.

 

“They’re all up in arms today, and I hate every last one of them.  Except Nala,” he adds.

 

“Give Bond a kiss for us, yes?” a voice floats by.

 

“Including Nala,” Q amends, “Why I ever thought that was a good idea.  Doomed.  I’m _doomed_ to a lifetime of living that down.”

 

“What, the kiss?”

 

“Oh, the _kiss_ ,” Q says derisively.

 

“I thought it was rather overdue.”

 

“Overdue doesn’t even come close.  No,” he says before James can pick at that, “That’s a conversation for a much later hour.  Do _not_ harass the doorman.  He’s kept me great company these past few weeks.”  James is startled into silence.  Q does nothing to stifle his laugh.

 

“You complete asshole,” James says finally.

 

“Oh ye of little faith,” Q says, “The alphabet is genre and last name.  Mind you, subgenres are a thing to be considered.”

 

“Shall I shelve the alien porn outside of the general science fiction hogwash, then?”

 

This time, it’s Q that’s startled into silence.  James lets him stew, beginning to separate the books he’s already unpacked into small stacks.  “Well,” Q says finally, “I’m—I have no idea what to say to that.”

 

James quirks an eyebrow.  “You don’t really have alien porn, do you?”

 

“Well, there are a few Doctor Who novelizations, and there are some sections of the fandom that consider the doctor an alien, so one might categorize any romantic inclinations as—”

 

“Q.”

 

“I put the periodic table in the bedroom just to spite you,” Q says.

 

“I’m aware,” James says, “The other walls are lacking in imagination, though.”

 

“I trust your interior designing skills,” he says, though he doesn’t sound like he’s giving James his full attention, “Put them wherever—fine.  _Fine_.  I can take a fucking hint.”  An enthusiastic cheer cuts through.  “Individual punishments for this mutiny will be extended upon my return.  _Tomorrow_ ,” he adds severely.

 

James pauses in his sorting, looking over at the window.  It’s still early, the sun still high in the sky.  “Are they kicking you out?” he asks.

 

“They pooled their resources to freeze me out of my own network.  It would, theoretically, only last a few seconds, but I—” Q falters, and there’s a commotion in the background.

 

“Oh,” James says, something warm unraveling across his chest.

 

Q makes a noise of disgust.  “This is all so distasteful,” he mutters, and cuts their line.

 

Thankfully, after Q’s packed his bag, the noise dies down.  He knows that, if they were in a different situation, his branch would never act this way, but given the circumstances, he’s decided to let it happen.  Truthfully, even in this given situation, he could easily set them straight, but his heart is beating at a million miles an hour, and all he can think about is James in his new flat, surrounded by his books, likely being tortured for love by his cats, and waiting for him to come home.

 

 _Home_.

 

He’s been waiting so long, he almost forgot what that word meant, and he’s eager to rediscover it.

 

Bag packed, and his branch secure, Q takes his leave, pausing only by R to confirm that he’ll call if anything, which Q knows he won’t unless MI-6 is under an actual assault, stops in with Eve to let her know he’s taking a half day, which she positively beams about, and leaves as discreetly as he can.

 

Once outside, the decision to take the tube is both one of cowardice and anticipation.  Though he’s loathe to admit it, Q’s uncertain about where they stand now, or rather, _how_ they stand.  The display in Q branch was one thing, but with the prospect of being alone with James for several hours at once looming overhead, Q’s not sure he’s ready to face all of it.  There’s so much that’s been left unsaid between them, and though he’d like to just pull the wool over his eyes and kick things off where they’d left it, that seems both unfeasible and highly illogical.

 

Thus, the tube.

 

It takes a solid thirty minutes for him to get back to his new neighborhood, and so, as soon as he’s settled into a seat, he conference calls his brothers.

 

Connor is the first to pick up, “Bugger, hang on.  Moira, knock it off!  I don’t care if Devon stole one of your Barbie’s, you can’t just go around whacking people with two by fours.”

 

Q lifts a fist to his mouth, trying to contain his laugh.  Moira’s shrill, angry voice retorts, “She tore off her _head_ , dad!  And covered her in ketchup to make it look like blood!  She’s a psychopath!”

 

“Murdering dolls again?” Shae asks as he answers, “This is why I’m stopping at one.”

 

“Ro, give us a second,” Connor says, and there’s the sound of him putting down the phone to go break up what sounds like a promising fight.

 

“Are you dead?” Shae asks.

 

“No,” Q says, “Are you?”

 

“Well, you’re the one calling in the middle of the day.  I’m at work.”

 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Q says, “I just—Des?” he adds when the last line clicks on.

 

“Hang on,” Desmond says quickly.

 

“How am I the only one not busy?” Shae mutters, “I hate this office.”

 

“You do not,” Q says, “I have it in good faith that you enjoy your coworkers, and even don’t completely despise the work you do.”

 

“It’s HR,” Shae says, “Hardly the stuff of spy novels.’

 

“You do realize it’s the middle of the day, right?” Desmond breaks in, “I’ve got an actual mountain of paperwork I have to get through by end of day.  Wait—are you dead?”

 

“Honestly,” Q says, “Connor!”

 

“World War XVIII is at a cease fire at the moment.  Rowan, it’s the middle of the day.”

 

“Good grief,” Q complains loudly, “You do all realize that occasionally I keep strange hours, right?  That it might be the end of my shift right now?”

 

“Uh huh,” Connor says, “But you’ve never called in the middle of the day.”

 

“Unless holy shit!” Shae yells.

 

“Shit,” Desmond says, “ _Rowan_.”

 

“Yes, okay,” Q says quickly, “He’s back.”

 

All three of them start talking at once, and Q makes a face, though he refrains from pulling the phone away.  Shae sounds angry, which surprises him as he’s been the most supportive one during all of this.  Desmond sounds cold and uncertain, which Q understands completely.  Connor, however, breaks through the noise with, “I’m going to curb stomp him and serve his skull on a fucking platter.  The _nerve_.  How long has it been?”

 

“Ten months,” Shae says quickly, “Are you going home to him right now?”

 

“Yes,” Q says, and waits for the noise to start again.  When it doesn’t, he swallows past a lump forming in his throat, and says, “I just—don’t want to do this anymore.”

 

“And when he leaves again?” Desmond demands.

 

“He didn’t leave, Des,” Q sighs, “So stop pretending that he did.”

 

“He could have called,” Connor mutters furiously, “Or _something_.”

 

“He couldn’t have, actually,” Q snaps.  His own anger is starting to boil up, though at his brothers and M, not at James.  “He was dark for a reason.”

 

“It’s still bullshit,” Connor says.

 

“I called you because I need you, not because I want you to make me feel like shit,” Q says, and doesn’t feel bad about it when Shae exhales loudly.

 

Connor grumbles incoherently before Desmond says, “Okay.  We’ll—talk about this later.  What are you doing right now?”

 

“I’m on the tube,” Q says, “I’m kind of freaking out.”

 

“Well, that’s dumb,” Shae says, and they spend the next thirty minutes talking about absolutely nothing at all, pulling Q’s mind farther and farther away from the way his world wants to unravel before stitching itself back together.  And when, finally, he’s reached his stop, he hangs up with them after a few long minutes of encouragement, walks the short distance from the stop to his building, and is left standing outside, frowning at the front door.

 

A voice from above, _literally_ , ushers him inside, “I once witnessed you hack into Russia’s nuclear codes _on a dare_ , and this is giving you pause?”

 

Q carefully doesn’t startle, doesn’t even look up, but he does give James the middle finger before striding into the building.  James’s laugh follows him even after the doors have closed, settles under his skin and makes a home there.

 

“Edward,” he says in greeting as he comes in through the lobby.

 

“Mister Larson,” the young man at the front desk says as Q makes for the stairs, “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

  
“Duty calls,” Q says, and jogs up the first flight.

 

He doesn’t let himself pause outside the door, but instead lets himself in ahead of time, shoulders the door open, and opens his mouth to start the worst of the conversation when the music reaches him.  It’s one of his favorite records, slow and smooth and _heavy_.  It hangs around him as he distractedly shuts the door, a whisper leaking beneath his layers and pulling goosebumps up along his arms.

 

Keats wanders out of his bedroom, meows in greeting, and trots past him into the kitchen to graze on his food.  Q blinks, and steps in after him.  Still wearing his parka and his bag, which contains a heavily modified gun, Q just stares at James—James _Bond_ , the deadliest assassin that MI-6 has to offer—surrounded by stacks of books with Joyce asleep in his lap and a mug of tea— _tea_ —in hand.  Q sags against the island, at a loss for words.

 

James lifts his mug in greeting, sips from it, and sets it on top of a stack of books to continue sorting the pile in front of him.  There are a thousand things he should ask, and instead the question that comes out is, “Did you separate my poetry into Renaissance and Romantic?”

 

“The classics are over there,” James says, gesturing vaguely behind him.

 

“Classics?” Q echoes.

 

James flashes him a smile.  “Beowulf, Homer, the Divine Comedy.”

 

Q blinks, and does not breathe.  “Well,” James says, and promptly looks away, tapping lightly at one of Joyce’s ears until she unravels to glare murder at him.  “Treats later if you scatter now,” he whispers.

 

Q flings himself out from under his messenger bag, not caring when it thuds loudly to the ground.  “Ten _months_ ,” he says, and shrugs out of his parka.

 

“Almost eleven,” James says, climbing to his feet slowly once Joyce is gone.

 

“The audacity,” Q snaps.  He gets tangled in one of the arms, swears recreationally at it, and throws it at the ground when he’s finally out.

 

“Goddamn those kidnappers,” James agrees, a smirk tilting across his mouth as he approaches Q, wending his way through the stacks easily, like he’s closing in on a mark.

 

Q toes out of his shoes as he asks, “Kidnappers?”

 

“Only the once,” James says, “At the end.  I was on my way back to you when they caught up to me.”  The words catch in Q’s chest, and he stops halfway out of his left shoe.

 

“Injuries?” he asks.

 

“Several,” is all James gives him, “Later.”

 

“James—”

 

“ _Q_.”

 

There are no words.  There are no words for the way the sun expands through Q’s lungs and cracks his sternum in half as James’s hands find him, one wrapping around his jaw as he tilts Q’s head up to meet him, the other finding the middle of his spine to press them together.  There are no words to describe how every muscle in his body breathes a sigh of relief and stops holding him together as James pauses a heartbeat away, his cold, unsettling eyes thawing rapidly at the whisper of skin when their noses brush together.  There are no words for how the numbness leaves his aching fingers, for how his bones shake the cobwebs loose, for how transparent he is in his wanting.

 

“Ten months,” he says because James still hasn’t kissed him.

 

“I’m sorry,” James says, and drops his forehead against Q’s.  His eyes are still open, still searching.

 

Q shakes his head, just a little, but enough, and lifts his hands to curl around James’s face, holding him steady.  “No more,” he says, and kisses him.

 

He means it to be soft, to be a whispered secret between them, but James is a fire always devouring, and Q is given one sigh of peace before he’s being pinned against the wall.  The hand that had been on his back tugs his button-up from his trousers, slips beneath, and wraps around Q’s waist, fingers digging in.  The hand around his jaw shifts just so, thumb hooking beneath his chin so he can tip Q’s head farther up.  Q lets out a strangled noise when James leaves a hot, unhurried trail down his throat, kisses the hollow there, and then noses aside the collar of his sweater to nip gently at his collarbone.

 

His exhale ghosts warm across Q’s exposed throat, and then he’s lifting his head, pale blue eyes meeting Q’s hazel ones.  In the expanding light of midday, they look almost golden.

 

James studies him for a long moment, and Q has one blinding moment of feeling unsettled before James steps back.  “James,” he says quickly, stepping away from the wall and toward him.

 

James holds up a hand between them.  “Is this okay?” he asks.  Q blinks, confused.  He almost asks him what the hell he’s on about when James continues, “If this is—not a—well, if—if _we’re_ not—”

 

“James,” Q cuts over him swiftly, knocking his hand aside and closing that damning distance between them.  “If we weren’t, you would have known long before right now.”

 

“I need,” James tries, and breaks off with a sigh.  Q gives him silence to figure out his words, but winds their fingers together and lifts their twined hands to kiss the backs of his knuckles, a little bruised from whatever recent fighting he’s done.  “I need to hear it.”  Q flicks his eyes up, finds James’s blue eyes closed, his head tilted forward, unconsciously leaning closer to him.

 

Q presses a last kiss to his knuckles, and then one to the corner of James’s mouth.  “You’re home,” he says, “And I’m still here.  Now,” he kisses the other corner, “Do I have to ask nicely, or can we skip the bullshit?”  James smirks, so Q comes close enough to kiss him, and doesn’t, instead brushes their mouths together.

 

“And you call me brutish,” James murmurs.

 

“Ten _months_ ,” Q says.

 

“Almost eleven,” James agrees, and kisses him with the fire of a thousand suns.

 

——

 

After it all—after they stumble around stacks of books, knocking into still unpacked boxes, and nearly tripping over Keats when he decides to lay down in the middle of everything; after Q laughs like something has been let loose inside of him, something dark finally easing, finally beginning to dissipate, and James just grins and grumbles, dragging Q along through the flat to the bedroom; after they struggle out of clothes because they can’t stop touching, hands leaving searing trails of heat and want and _now, why are you so bloody slow_ —after, James knocks Q’s knees out from under him, sending him sprawling onto the bed, and grins down at him in a way that makes Q huff and say, “Oh, Mister Bond, do be gentle with me,” in his best imitation of a valley girl voice.

 

It’s neither a good impression nor particularly convincing considering Q is batting his eyelashes ridiculously, but something sharp dislodges in James, something that had been piercing his lungs and serrating the edges of his heart, something that, once again, appears to open the floodgates.  There is no in between here, no before and after, simply Q, his trousers undone, his glasses skewed, and the line of his ribs a little less defined than the last time James saw him, grinning wickedly as James erupts into a laugh, bowing over the bed toward him.  There’s only this—James’s mirth hidden in Q’s neck while one of his hands splays open over Q’s ribs.  There’s James asking, “Have you been working out?”  And there’s Q answering, “Why, want to see what you’ve been missing?” before he aptly tosses James onto his back.

 

And after, after it all—after Q rises onto his knees and takes back what is rightfully his, after James’s fingers smear bruises across his hips, on one of his thighs, and even around one of his biceps when Q dips down toward him, mouth a sharp, wild thing across James’s chest; after James swallows Q’s almost beg when he rolls them, biting sharply at Q’s lower lip, pins him to the bed, and shows him just how much he’s missed him, just how much he’s been waiting and wanting and wishing; after Q drags blunt nails across James’s shoulder, marks his Iceland pale skin with long, red marks, swells a bruise to his collarbone with his teeth, and holds onto him when James shakes apart, the silence broken only by their sharp breaths—after, Q makes them both tea, almost lets traitorous words spill from his mouth when he finds James has picked out books for each of them, and tucks up in bed with him.

 

“I can’t believe I left work early,” he muses later.  James is resting against the headboard, Joyce curled up against his hip.  Q’s legs are thrown across his lap, temple resting against his shoulder, and book propped against his side.

 

“I can’t believe you left work early for a shag,” James says.

 

Q rolls his eyes, sticks his thumb in his book, and sits straight.  James is grinning cheekily.

 

Q hums thoughtfully, opens his book back up to mark his page, and sets it aside.  James lifts one eyebrow.  “Standard operating procedure?” he asks.  When Q merely continues watching him, gaze flicking across his face too rapidly to tell if he’s seeing anything there, James closes his book, and sets it on top of Joyce, who doesn’t move.

 

“I am still your quartermaster,” Q says before James can say anything, “I don’t blame you in the slightest for the length of time.  Admittedly, I do harbor a splash of resentment toward M for sending you out to die, but alas.  Kings and queens and guillotines.”

 

James blinks, swallows a smirk, and asks, “Did you just quote an Aerosmith lyric at me?”

 

“Live,” Q says loftily, “and no reply, they died.”

 

James’s expression remains impassive, though it’s a battle he’s certain he’ll lose if Q continues along this vein.  Thankfully, he doesn’t, but instead asks, “What’s next?”

 

And truly, here it is.  Here is the truth he never got to speak aloud.  He has two options.  He could tell Q about the will, about wanting to retire, or he could keep running from his future, from his fear.

 

Q hums, seeing something on his face, though James isn’t sure what it could possibly be, and swings his legs off of James’s lap only to clamber up onto his knees.  He sits back on his heels, thighs resting alongside James’s, and sets one hand flat over his sternum, long fingers spreading wide.  James sets both his hands over Q’s thighs, grip just enough that he can feel how strong he really is, how much he’s actually been working out.  It sets a fire alight in his spine, and though he wants nothing more than to explore that fire, he doesn’t move, instead remains present in their conversation.  “Is this about the will?” Q asks.

 

James blinks, derailed.

 

Q smiles softly and lifts his hand to brush the backs of his knuckles over James’s collarbone, stopping only to press his thumb against the bruise still blossoming there.  James’s eyes narrow, but otherwise, he doesn’t show that a small flare of pain brightens beneath Q’s thumb.  They narrow a little further, fanning lines at the edges of his eyes, as Q presses harder.

 

“M told me.”

 

“What?”  James reaches up to grab Q’s wrist, fingers circling around it easily.  Even if he’s put on a little muscle, James could still easily snap his wrist with the right grip.  Q, ever a sadist, digs his thumb against the bruise.  James lets him, though he does tighten his hold a little.

 

Q lifts one eyebrow, releases his bruise, and says, “Six months after you went dark.”

 

“And the funeral?” James asks.

 

Q scoffs.  “Absolutely not,” he says, “I demanded that we wait a year.”

 

“And after that?”

 

“A quiet affair,” Q says before his hand twists.  James releases his wrist, and leans into Q’s palm when his hand curls around his jaw.  His thumb, gentle now, sweeps out over James’s cheek.  “Eve, myself, a few of the double oh’s.  Perhaps R and Nala.  M, of course.”  James blinks slowly, trying to decipher why he doesn’t find it morbid that Q’s clearly planned out his funeral extensively.  That is, until, he continues, “We’d all wear Hawaiian shirts and sip martinis with those little umbrellas in them.  With sugar on the rims and some kind of god awful fruit.”

 

James says, “Dragon fruit,” before he turns his head to kiss Q’s palm lightly.

 

“That hardly seems like a proper fruit for a martini.”

 

“Fruit,” James says, “for a _martini_.”

 

“Right,” Q agrees.  James drops another feather-light kiss against his palm, grins when Q’s other hand drifts down to run his knuckles distractingly over both of them.  “If you die,” Q says, “and I mean well and truly kick the bucket, I thought a drink on the roof would be fitting.”

 

James hums, opens his mouth enough to lick up the inside of Q’s thumb, and then closes it again around the last knuckle.  He flicks his blue eyes up to find Q biting his lip, his eyes dark and heavy.

 

“You were going to retire,” he says evenly.

 

James releases his thumb, kisses his palm, and lifts his head.  “Should I not?” he asks.

 

Q regards him, looking every bit unhinged with his bitten mouth and hungry eyes.  He wraps a deft hand around James’s cock, swipes a thumb over the head, and leans in close, close enough that James can see how sharp his hungry eyes really are, how thoughtful his bitten mouth is.  He wonders, briefly, if Q’s brain ever lets him be, if he’s ever able to just let go, and resolves to do just that as soon as Q’s gotten his words out.  And so, he waits him out, still and silent as a predator on the hunt even as Q’s hand twists knots of heat in his belly.

 

“Do you want to?  Truly?” Q asks.

 

“For you, yes,” James says.

 

“For you, though?” Q asks.

 

James shrugs one shoulder.  “Not always,” he says.

 

“Then don’t,” Q says, “It’s a nice thought, yes.”  He lifts his free hand to thread through James’s hair, and continues, “A greying James Bond, at home with dinner ready and a dog lapping at his heels.”

 

“Do I get an apron?” James asks.

 

Q’s fingers tighten, moving just so, and James lets out a startled exhale, the hand on Q’s thigh tightening, nails biting skin.  Q smirks, and does it again.  “Bastard,” James mutters because of course, of bloody course, Q is the only one that can unravel him, that unleashes the dark creature lurking beneath his skin at the most unexpected of times.

 

“Kiss the cook?” Q asks, and shifts away, leaning back into his heels, his hands wrapping around James’s where they rest on his thighs.

 

A muscle in James’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move otherwise.  “Mandatory retirement is in two years,” James reminds him.

 

“Oh please,” Q says, rolling his eyes, “M isn’t sending you off to die again, nor is he forcing you to retire anytime soon.  The organization that you destabilized is making news everywhere.  Everyone, and I mean _everyone_ , is paying their respects to M.  He’s not letting you go until you’re both good and ready.”

 

“And you?” James asks.

 

“Well,” Q says, pausing to lick his lips, “Selfishly, I’d rather you where I can keep my eye on you.”

 

“At work,” James clarifies.

 

Q hums his agreement, eyes wandering across James’s face.  He squeezes James’s hands, offers him a crooked grin, and asks, “Are we done?”

 

“I should hope so,” James says, “I’d quite like to fuck you.”

 

“Well, get on with it, then,” Q says.

 

He manages to keep up the banter until James swallows him down, two fingers in his ass, and other hand wrapped tightly with Q’s, and then the only thing he’s capable of saying is James’s name and a few choice swear words.

 

And after, when James tries to test his brain capacity by asking him for the square root of a hefty number, Q yawns around telling him to sod off, and falls asleep with his ear pressed to James’s heartbeat.

 

——

 

They get called into MI-6 at 4AM the next morning.  Well, Q receives a dire message from R, and James snorts when Q says he’s going to take the tube in.  Q points out that they don’t exactly have a car, and he doesn’t trust cabbies this late, though that hardly does anything to deter James.  It’s a rather curious sight, then, riding the tube just after 4AM with James Bond looking unassuming next to him.  He’s anything but, though the way he sits, legs sprawled open and head tipped back, eyes closed, lends to an air of carelessness.  The clothes certainly don’t help, either, Q almost tells him.  Though his jeans likely cost as much as one month’s rent, and his winter sky blue long sleeve is soft as sin, he’s sporting Q’s Ares III mission sweatshirt beneath his handsome jacket, and it’s entirely possible that the green and grey scarf has a Slytherin emblem hidden somewhere.

 

Q’s hardly in better shape, though he did manage to dress appropriately since he’s unlikely to return home anytime soon.  His navy trousers are wrinkled, though, and he’d outright ignored James’s snort when he pulled a forest green, checkered jumper over his hideously brown button-up.  James had, however, intervened at the yellow tie, and told Q to get out before he gave everyone a headache.

 

The connection on the tube is spotty at best, even using networks that he really shouldn’t, but he does what he can while James pretends to nap next to him.  He opens his eyes only once, when a young man sits opposite them, and glares at the man until he moves down a few seats.  “Stop it,” Q mumbles absentmindedly.  James ignores him.

 

When, finally, they arrive at MI-6, it’s to quite the hubbub.  It appears the news of his resurrection spread like wildfire after his scene coming up through the floor vents, though he’d expected nothing else.  The minions, however, appear to have said nothing about what happened in Q branch, if 009’s reaction is anything to judge by.  There are three other agents in the branch when they arrive, though James doesn’t recognize them.

 

“0010, 0011, and 0012,” Q says without looking up as James holds open the door for him.

 

“That was fast,” James says as he carefully steers Q out of the way of what appears to be a weaponized Roomba.

 

Q sees it, however, and immediately looks up and over to a minion’s desk.  “I said to destroy that abomination,” he snaps.

 

“Sorry, sir,” the minion says, hurrying to do just that.

 

“Well, _hell_ ,” 009 says when he looks up at Q’s voice and spots them.

 

He’s sporting a grin that James wants to rip from his face, so he stops at Nala’s desk instead of continuing with Q to his own.  Nala slides a piece of paper across the desk, and James almost, _almost_ , laughs.  “Bagels?” he asks instead.

 

“Don’t skimp on the cream cheese,” Nala says, still typing.

 

James pockets the note, and wanders over to the tea station, studying the three new agents as he does.  Two of them are clearly related, which seems a bit unlike M to do, and they’re far too friendly with Q when he comes around to his desk, tossing bits of himself onto it.  He answers their questions distractedly, setting his phone down as he opens his laptop.  The only man among them has the gall to lean against Q’s desk, flashing him a handsome smile, and 009 discreetly tries to tell him what a terrible idea that is while James plots his untimely death.

 

Q, completely unfazed, fires off questions at R, their conversation hardly legible.  He acknowledges them only when he’s finished, and when James is leaning against the tea station, a mug of tea in hand.  “What?” he says, too quick to be anything but annoyed.

 

0011, James assumes—because M would of course separate the twin’s monikers—straightens from Q’s desk, is so new he sports a frown at Q’s sharpness, and says, “M thought we might be able to help.”

 

Q blinks once, deliberately slow.  “Help,” he repeats, “I find that hard to believe.”

 

“Well, not—” 0011 flusters, loses his footing.  James thinks about saving him, and reconsiders, instead sipping the tea.  “Not with all this,” he finally says, waving a hand at Q’s laptop, “But perhaps—” he trails off, looking forlorn.

 

“With the general atmosphere,” one of the twins jumps to his aid.

 

It’s the smallest thing in the world, in retrospect, but Q glances at James, lightning quick, and back to the three agents.  Trained as they are, though, they see it, and confusion flits across their faces in different fashions.  James watches it all unfold from the tea station, refusing to move until they’ve done so first.

 

“Oh,” 0011 says, “Never—never mind, then.  We’ll just—”

 

“Yes, thank you,” Q says, attention effectively released back to his laptop.  009, having wandered off to bother one of the minion’s when it became clear the three green agents were just going to dig their own holes, grins as 0011 leaves.

 

The twins, however, are not so easily swayed.  They don’t leave the branch, and though they do hover a bit, they give Q room to work.

 

“Oh, don’t,” James hears Q grumble under his breath when he steps away from the tea station.

 

James doesn’t respond until he’s at Q’s shoulder, and then he sets the mug down next to his laptop, his exhale rushing warm over Q’s ear as he says, “Just remember til you’re home again, you belong to me.”

 

Q doesn’t miss a beat, “Patsy Cline or Misfits?”

 

James straightens, laughing without sound.  “What an enigma you are, Q.”

 

“Hardly,” Q says, and reaches for the tea, “Wild berry, please.  On second thought.”

 

“Onion to chase away your admirers?” James suggests.

 

Q pulls his attention from the code in front of him, and looks up over his shoulder at James.  “Play nice, you incorrigible brat,” he says.

 

“With garlic cream cheese, then,” James says, stepping out from behind his desk.

 

“Asiago,” Q says, “Or death.”

 

“So soon after the reunion?” James says, feigning disbelief, “Quartermaster, you wound me.”

 

From somewhere to his left, R snorts.  James smirks, but doesn’t look over.  “Not yet,” Q promises, already back to his code, “But later, perhaps.”

 

“Oh!” R exclaims, “Holy shit.  Welcome back, Bond.”

 

Q hides his grin as he adjusts his glasses.  One of the twins looks like she’s been hit with a stunner when James turns to leave.

 

All is as it should be, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I can't believe this is actually happening, but here we are. I'll try to keep this short, but wanted to quickly let you know about structure/writing. There will be four parts. So I've already lied to you if you follow me on [Tumblr](http://sleeponrooftops.tumblr.com/) since I said this was going to mirror _oh mercy_ , and be three parts. Turns out, part two is 41k words, and no thanks. Plus, there's a really great breaking point literally in the middle at 20k, so I'm using it. (Translation: cliffhanger.) Part two (section a?) will be posted next Friday. Part two, section b will be posted the Friday following. And then part three the Friday after that. I have written part two in its entirety (yes, all 41k words), and I'm predicting part three will only be about 10-15k, so that'll be a breeze. Thus, you are entering this with an almost fully completed fic, and I swear to you, I'm finishing it. I am not abandoning this fic because holy hell, I've already invested 63k in it, _god_.
> 
> Other than that, I hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to leave your thoughts!


	2. pendant, i

_This world is a masterpiece;_

_A canvas sheet accountable for such losses._

Two weeks pass before James returns to MI-6 in earnest.  0011, possibly holding a grudge about how he’d been dismissed previously, makes a comment about an old dog licking his wounds in privacy.  Q finds the notion so hilarious that he doesn’t bother rising to the bait, and outfits 0011 for his mission to Istanbul with all the professionalism he can muster.  And if he smirks as 0011 trudges back out of his branch looking a little downtrodden, no one calls him out on it.

 

That night, he comes home to a decadent French feast.  He can smell it long before he even makes it to the third floor, and Edward’s only warning is that his Bond friend seems to be making himself at home if the groceries are anything to judge by.  Q, ever curious, hacks into the security cameras in the lobby as he climbs the stairs.

 

Sure enough, at around 11AM that morning, James waltzes into the building with two armfuls of groceries.  And yet, this is, somehow, not even the most disturbing part of it all.  For one, Q can’t quite find when he’d left, which leads him to believe that he’d either scaled the building from the balcony, or that he already knew where the cameras were, and was trying to be discreet for reasons Q isn’t sure he wants to know.

  
And for two, he looks unhelpfully attractive, which is really unfair considering the quality of the cameras are, although decent, not the greatest Q has seen by a long shot—he makes a mental note to upgrade them as soon as possible—and he’s carrying in the _shopping_.  Despite these things, and as the heavenly smell of baking camembert drifts down the stairs, Q zooms in on the frozen frame to find that James had gone out, _in public_ , wearing his Ares III mission sweatshirt.  Decidedly, he’s going to have to start introducing him to his other nerdy clothes just to see how far he can push this.  It isn’t the sweatshirt that gives him pause, though, or the fact that he isn’t wearing a coat over it despite the fact that it’s nearly mid-November now, but rather _everything else_.  From the boat shoes that look incredibly well-loved to the jeans that are naturally faded from constant wear to the light, comfortable-looking burgundy sweater with a heavy _shawl collar_.

 

Q actually pauses on the second landing, blinking stupidly at the picture.  He tries to compare it to 007 in a magnificently tailored and jaw-dropping skeleton suit dropping onto a sofa post-collapsed building, and it just—doesn’t work.

 

Up another flight of stairs, Q’s greeted with the underlying scent of mussels, already starting to overwhelm the camembert, and then, as he reaches the doors, something soft and uncertain, something he thinks may be another meat, but without the overpowering smell of being one.  He gets through the locks in a hurry, hangs his parka up in a small closet next to the door, and takes his messenger bag with him down the hall and around the corner into the kitchen.

 

James is still dressed in his boat shoes and faded jeans and old man sweater, and Q almost, _almost_ laughs at him.  He’s on the verge of a laugh, too, when James turns, wooden spoon in hand, and holds it out to Q.  Obediently, Q leans forward, tasting the sauce.  His laugh fails.  His words fail.  His brain stops functioning.

 

“The _hell_ ,” he manages to stutter out.

 

James flashes him a grin full of his canines and mischief, and turns back to the stove.  Q wanders farther in, shrugging out from under his messenger bag slowly.  Three of the burners are being used, one of them closed and bubbling, which he assumes are the mussels, and he thinks the camembert might be in the oven.  To make matters worse, James is wearing a goddamn apron, though it’s only tied at the waist, and considerably plain as far as aprons go.  It’s even been muddied a bit, though when Q looks to his hands, it’s to find that they’re not as neat and tidy as they normally are.

 

“How long have you been cooking?” Q asks even as James abandons his sauce in favor of opening the liquor cabinet.  Surprisingly, he doesn’t appear to have been drinking while cooking.

 

“A few hours,” he says distractedly, and that puts a stop to all other trains of thought.

 

Q blinks over to him, watches James select a wine, thinks about how he hadn’t had nearly that many bottles the last he checked, and is about to ask just exactly what he’s been up to today when James pours a healthy glass, swirls the liquid richly, lifts it to his nose, and grins at Q from behind the glass as he inhales.

 

“A few _hours_ ,” Q repeats, stressing the last word.

 

James’s icy eyes are full of layers upon layers of bad behavior, and Q has the sudden, terrible notion that he’s making up for something.  “Have you killed one of my cats?” he asks, immediately starting to turn and look for them.

  
“Nothing of the sort,” James says, and has the gall to sound offended.

 

“That’s a completely reasonable question to pose,” Q says, glancing at him when James sets the wine glass down on the island in front of him.  He turns back around fully when James stays there, hands wrapped idly around the edge of the island, staring unflinchingly at Q.  He wants to lay eyes on Joyce and Keats individually, but something about James’s abrupt stillness keeps him here.  He holds Q’s gaze for a moment longer before looking away, his mouth twisting into a grimace and then back to a flat line so fast that Q almost misses it.  And even if he had, James is still looking toward the balcony doors in an uncertain way that Q’s only seen a handful of times.

 

He reaches out a hand, watches James’s fingers tighten around the edge of the island, and picks up his wine glass, lifting it to his nose.  “Oh,” he sighs appreciatively as he inhales, “A Bordeaux?”

 

James’s flat mouth flickers into the ghost of a smile, and his eyes when he turns them on Q are soft, nothing but certainty held within.  “Truth for truth,” he says.

 

Q nods.  “Fair terms,” he says, “What do you want to know?”  They’ve played this game a few times, mostly when there was a truth they couldn’t bear to part with, but knew, in the end, it would be better said aloud—Q’s name for Vesper’s, the name of the man who tried to choke Q for the whole bloody story of Skyfall, Q’s darkest hacking job for James’s worst kill.

 

“0011,” James says.  It costs him dearly, that much is evident, though Q wants to smack him.

 

“0011,” Q repeats, blinking once.  He drinks liberally from the wine.  It sits heavy on his tongue as he mulls about how best to respond without sounding irate.  In the end, he comes across as hurt, “Do you really think so little of me?”

 

“Eleven months, nearly,” James reminds him.

 

“Yes, and how was your relationship with that daughter while in Iceland?  Did she mean anything to you?”  James flinches, almost imperceptibly, and straightens, arms falling to his sides.  “Exactly,” Q says, “Your job is to seduce and destroy.  Mine is to keep _my_ double oh agents safe.  I know you slept with that woman, and I don’t give a flying rat’s ass about it.  That’s your _job_.  Do you have even the slightest idea how difficult it is to work with a double oh who doesn’t particularly like you?  In being nice to my agents, I can avoid having another 004 on my hands.  I am perfectly allowed to have _friends_ , James.  The _sauce_.”

 

James’s brow furrows, but then the smell hits him, and he quickly turns, salvaging it before anything truly dire happens.  He sets it to simmer, safe on its own, checks on the camembert and deems it ready, and then puts his back to Q, who sighs and slides off his seat to come around the island.  He leans a hip against the counter, wine still in hand, and folds one arm across his chest as he watches James slice bread.

 

His face is doing something complicated, something he’d tried to hide from Q when he turned his back, and he almost tells him that he should know better than to hide by now.  His mouth is open to do just that when he thinks back on that thought— _by now_.

 

Oh.

 

 _Oh_.

 

Q sips at the wine, swallowing it slowly.  Skyfall, if he remembers his timeline correctly, was about four years ago, give or take a few months.  Vesper, he needs another sip to remember, but he thinks she might have occupied at least a year of James’s heart.

 

“Liar,” Q accuses, “Truth for truth does not mean truth for half-truth.  Fess up.”

 

James’s complicated face settles on a resigned smile, which he does not deign Q with.  Instead, he finishes preparing the camembert, and goes back to the island.  Q stubbornly does not follow.  James sits at the island, a good foot down from the sink, and it gives Q pause.  He can remember, clearly, James in the beginning, when he would stand at the back of Q branch, or wake at the smallest sound, the guns he started leaving in seemingly innocuous places around the flat, or the way he looked up every time Q would move.  He can remember, too, James falling asleep with Keats in his lap and half of Q branch collapsed around his living room, or how, morning by morning, he started to wake up slower, more relaxed, and now, here he is, with his back to Q.

 

“What is this really about?” Q asks.

 

James gestures at the camembert, and Q knows he’s not going to answer him until he can look at him, so he finally pushes away from the counter, and goes around to sit opposite James.  He bathes the bread in an indulgent spread of cheese, takes a bite, and has to withhold a groan.

 

“That’s just—rude,” he finally manages to say.

 

James grins at him, all Cheshire cat.

 

“Come on,” Q says, reaching for more cheese, “Out with it.”

 

“The smart blood,” James says easily, “Did you destroy it?”

 

“Yes,” Q lies.

 

“Truth for truth, Q.”

 

“Asshole.  No.”

 

“Can you make it so that no one but you can access it?”

 

Q frowns at him.  “Why?” he asks.

 

“Answer the question,” James says.

 

Q blows out a breath.  “Probably, yes.  In theory.”

 

James nods once, takes another piece of bread, and studies it for a moment before he says, “I have two proposals, and then you can have my truth.”

 

Q tries to swallow, but something like uncertainty is creeping up, so he settles for more bread and cheese to keep his hands busy.  James watches him, unblinking, unmoving, and Q wants to hide.  “Q,” he says, so soft it’s almost an exhale rather than sound.

 

“Why 0011 and the smart blood in the same breath?” Q demands, not looking at him.

 

He feels the moment James lays his cards on the table, and braces himself for impact a heartbeat before James says, “I asked about 0011 because I am never going to stop believing that this isn’t real.”  Q reacts by looking up, honestly surprised.  He starts to open his mouth, but James’s face is so open, so devoid of any of the usual masks he wears, his eyes clear and at war, his heart speared and beating on the island between them.  “The will was twofold,” he says, “Both a statement and a safeguard.”

 

Q nods slowly.  The pieces are starting to slot together, pieces that he’s been denying for the last eleven months.  “A statement,” he says, “That I am yours.”

 

“I hope,” James says.

 

“Don’t be daft,” Q says, “Of course.  Though that’s a rather medieval way of putting it, I’m not going anywhere.  You do realize this is my flat, right?”  James’s half-smirk thanks him for his attempt at a joke.  Q plows on, “And the safeguard?  Do you mean financially and all that?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And my friendliness with 0011 factors into all this how?” Q asks.  There’s still a piece he’s missing, and he thinks it might be the very center of the puzzle.

 

“Have you ever considered marriage, Q?” James asks as though he’s commenting on the weather.

 

“Marriage,” Q repeats slowly.  The center piece is still missing, but his heart is in the beginning stages of a mutiny, and if it weren’t for the seat beneath him, Q thinks he might fall down.  This doesn’t make sense.  Of all the scruples James has—and contrary to very, _very_ popular belief, he does have some—marriage strikes Q as something he laughs at, something he finds childish, something for stories.

 

Q’s eyebrows draw together as he reaches for another piece of bread.  James does the same, and they eat in silence until James gets up to finish cooking whatever concoction he’s got going on.  Q continues to pick absentmindedly at the camembert, trying to piece it all together.

 

Marriage is something he considered when he was young, before his father died.  He considered it less after he was hired at MI-6, but up until his mother’s death, he thought it might still have some merit.  And though her death had in no way been at all involved with his position at MI-6, it was like her absence cleared the last dredges of youthful hopefulness in him.  The only possible, and successful, relationship he could ever have, whether romantic or platonic, would have to come through work or not at all.  And though that was something others might consider sad, Q had accepted it without pause.  If he could not share his work, he could not share his heart because the two were mutually exclusive.

 

But this, he and James—well he’d just counted himself lucky and went on his way.  He had a somewhat stable relationship that he could share with both halves of his life—family and work—equally, and if he occasionally had to withstand months of not knowing whether or not James might be dead, he figured that was a small price to pay for having his cake and eating it.

 

“Oh,” Q says.  It startles him, the sound of his voice in the otherwise quiet flat.  James has begun setting the table, laying out a bowl of steamed mussels that smell spicy and delicious, and another meat that Q still can’t identify bathed in some kind of cream sauce with different types of mushrooms cooked in, as well as side of crunchy-looking green beans and—“Are those homemade?”  When James just glances up at him and then back at the table, Q rolls his eyes.  “You were cooking for a few _hours_ because you made your own pasta?”

 

“Boxed pasta is for college students and—”

 

“Oh, don’t finish that sentence, you privileged jackass,” Q mutters, “I just—I’m trying to—are you asking—”

 

“Yes,” James says.

 

“Oh,” Q says, and swallows, “Well.”

 

“Well?”

 

“Truth for truth,” he says, “Marriage for smart blood.”  James inclines his head.  “Say it, or I’ll shoot you.”

 

“With what gun?” James teases.

 

“I’m sure there are at least four within the vicinity that could be easily reached.  One of them is beneath my laptop, so even if you block the other three, the statement still stands, and I’m a bloody good shot, so I’ll make sure it hurts.  Say it.”

 

“Yes, I am asking for your hand.  And requesting that you utilize the smart blood.”

 

“You know,” Q says, holding his steady gaze, “Psych would have an absolute field day with you if you actually answered their questions appropriately.”

 

“You really want them to try to evaluate why something as absurd as marriage gives me some kind of security?  That I might abide by the _law_?”

 

“Heaven forbid,” Q says.  He studies him for a moment longer, and then leans back in his seat, relaxing.  James takes that as his cue to begin serving, and begins divvying up everything but the mussels.  “You get an abstract concept, and I get concrete proof of your survival, then.  Hardly seems fair.”

 

“The heart wants what it wants, Q,” James says serenely.

 

“Don’t make me poison you.”

 

“R did say you’d been working on some rather nasty antidotes recently.”

 

“Side project,” Q admits, “002 came in contact with something while you were away, and it got me thinking.”

 

“Oh good.  Tell me you haven’t got rats around now for testing.”

 

“Not yet,” Q says.

 

James flashes him a smirk, though it looks like it might shatter at any second.

 

Q frowns, and asks, “This is really what you want?  Knowing that I—well,” Q amends, frown disappearing as he wrinkles his nose in distaste, “that I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon, or really, ever—that’s not enough?”

 

“It is.  Q,” James sighs, and finally settles in his seat.  He spares a last moment of not looking at him, and then lifts his eyes.  “It is,” he says, “It is enough.  But not always.”

 

Q nods slowly.  “The brain thinks what the brain thinks,” he says.

 

“Precisely.”

 

“And the smart blood?” he asks.

 

“I’d like you to know, definitively, if a second funeral is necessary or not.”

 

Q thinks of those months of not knowing, of feeling like he was in limbo.  He thinks of that moment when everything had sharpened into focus again, like he’d been asleep for the past nearly eleven months and was only just waking up.  He thinks of spending another second not knowing.

 

“What is your truth?” he asks finally.

 

“Say it, quartermaster, or I’ll shoot you,” James says playfully.

 

“Yes, James, I will gladly be your husband, which you will not spread around MI-6, and which you will most definitely not require me to wear a ring for, and in return, I will gladly stab you with a very sharp needle and track your every heartbeat.  Where the hell are my cats?”

 

“Playing with their brother.”

 

He says it so easily, without even the faintest hint of regret, that Q almost doesn’t hear the implication.

 

Q closes his eyes, and prays for strength.

 

James laughs maniacally.

 

——

 

The next day, Q is elbow deep in the car Adrienne destroyed when Eve comes looking for him.  He gets about thirteen seconds warning when R texts him, and then the door to his lab is banging open.  He’s not alone—Arjuna is off to the side, making beakers explode while he tries to figure out the latest poison that an agent brought back.  He’s sure that there are people within MI-6 that are tasked to this particular aspect of work, but Arjuna and Nala have been showing increasing aptitude for working with poisons and their antidotes, so Q’s been letting them have their fun.  Regardless, he’s curious to see where the work goes, and if they can possibly be weaponized in ways that no one will expect.

 

However, when Eve storms in, she merely gives Arjuna a cursory glance before she sweeps over and kicks Q hard enough in the shin to bruise.  “Ow!” he yelps from under the car, jumping.

 

He tucks his legs in closer to the car to avoid another air strike, but Eve just asks, “Did you really send a _memo_ to my desk asking me to come down here?”

 

Q glares up at the underside of the car.  It really hadn’t been much more than a shaking frame when she brought it back, and he’s been in the lab for much of his morning working on it.  He decides, between Eve and his aching arms, it’s about time to come out.  And thus, Q kicks at the ground, sliding himself out, and smiles sheepishly up at Eve.  “Actually,” he says, “R sent the memo.”

 

Eve throws said memo at him.  It’s paper, and thus flutters harmlessly, but she still gets her point across.

 

“It was for good reason,” Q says, sitting up.  Eve extends a hand automatically, but Q doesn’t take it.  “Grease,” he says when she starts to glare at him, turning over his hands, which are smeared with grease.  There’s grease streaked across his faded Jurassic Park t-shirt, too, and he thinks a smudge around one of his biceps, though he’s not sure how it got there, or if he’s just mistaking a bit of his tattoo for grease.

 

“You should wear gloves,” Eve mutters.

 

Q scoffs at her, and looks behind her to see if Arjuna is sufficiently distracted.  One of the beakers is smoking, and he looks a tad panicked, so Q nods and looks back to Eve.  “Are you free tonight?”

 

Eve blinks, clearly thinking that he’d sent for her for an entirely different reason.  “I can be,” she says, “Why?”

 

Q hums, makes a face, and glances at Arjuna again.  Eve sighs, grabs him by the elbow, and steers them deeper into the lab, over toward his cluttered desk.  Once there, Q starts making tea as he says, “Just things to talk about.”

 

“Things you can’t talk about here?” she asks, and then, “What did Bond do?”

 

“Things I’d rather not talk about here,” Q says, brandishing a mug at her, “Yes or no?”

 

“Sure,” Eve says, shrugging, “Where are we going?”

 

“Not pasta,” Q says.

 

Eve grins.  “I saw your post last night.  Was that homemade pasta?”

 

“Don’t even get me started,” Q mutters, “It was bribery.”

 

“Is this the thing you can’t talk about?” Eve asks as Q starts fishing around for his mobile.  He comes up with it in the back pocket of his jeans.  He’d really not intended to be in his branch at all today, what with most of the double oh’s on British soil, so he came to work dressed to build and explode things.

 

“Oh no,” Q says, tapping into his pictures, “This is certainly a thing we can talk about.”  He flips the phone around, and Eve is frozen for one full second before she snatches the phone from him, mouth open in disbelief.

 

“No,” she says, “You really got a third cat.”

 

“ _I_ did no such thing,” he says.

 

“Oh, bribery,” Eve echoes, glancing at him, “James brought this home?”

 

“Which I also highly suspect was bribery.”

 

“For the things we can’t talk about here?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“What is it?” Eve asks.

 

She hands the phone back, and Q glances at the picture.  A tiny, orange tabby stares up at him, flanked on either side by grey Joyce and all black Keats.  “Boy,” he says, pocketing the phone, “Oscar.”

 

“Of course,” Eve says, “How old?”

 

“Eight _weeks_.  I said I didn’t want a kitten,” he says as the water beeps at him.

 

“You did, indeed,” Eve agrees, watching him pour water with one hand and blindly search for a tea bag with the other.  Eve saves him by coming around to pluck an Earl Grey from the top drawer of the desk.  She lifts it to her nose, inhaling.  “Is this new?” she asks.

 

“Loose leaf,” Q says, taking it from her, “It’s heavenly.  James found it—somewhere?”

 

“You really can’t tell me now, whatever it is?” she asks.

 

“I’d really rather not,” Q says, shrugging one shoulder, “It’s a bit much.”

 

“Espionage, and all that,” Eve says as Q makes his way back around the desk.  They chat for a few minutes longer, and then she leaves him to disappear beneath the car again.  Upstairs, M’s door is still closed, and she wonders just how long his debrief with James is going to take.

 

——

 

The debrief takes approximately two hours and fourteen minutes, and then M lets James stew while he reviews everything.  He occasionally asks a question of clarification, and James answers dutifully, but otherwise, the last twenty-six minutes of their meeting are held in silence.  M, at his desk, shuffles papers and looks over notes while James, seated comfortably in front of him, reviews yesterday.

 

He’d woken up long before Q, gone out for a run, and was back by the time Q was knocking things over in the shower.  He joined him if only to be close to him, but skipped out before Q was finished to make breakfast.  By then, the decision had already been made for two weeks, but a message came through from M while he was scrambling eggs informing him that he’d appreciate his presence for a debrief the following day.  It was back to work, then, it seemed, which meant it was finally time to unravel his heart for Q.

 

Marriage was not something James had ever considered before Iceland.  It was a thing he still believed in, but only between the right people.  His marks were never the right people, but his parents had been, and the old M had loved her husband dearly before he died.  It was something, growing up, that he’d hoped for, longed for briefly, even, when he was in the Navy and everyone else was receiving letters from their beautiful girlfriends or wives.  He’d never wanted a family, but a companion—someone to come home to, someone to sleep next to, someone to worry about and cook for and plan things with—was a thing he never stopped wanting.  Even when he joined MI-6, James still dreamed about it.  It became that, however, a dream.  He knew, realistically, that he would never reach retirement.  Double oh’s very rarely did, and he quickly procured a reputation for the most dangerous missions, for the worst kinds of escapes, for the deadliest weapons.  He expected death to come early, and possibly wearing a familiar face.  When he met Q, the dream did not become reality.  He hadn’t even intended to court Q at first, but when it seemed inevitable, when he finally let some of his walls come down and started pursuing him in earnest, James thought of it more as someone to spend his last few good years with.

 

And then, Iceland.

 

James started paying attention.  It came suddenly one night, the fact that he’d been in a single, stable relationship for over three years.  Truthfully, it was anything but stable, but he’d settled for the idea that any honest relationship would have to come through work, or it would never last.  Q knew what he did, knew who he was, knew how he lived, and accepted him despite it all.  He’d never once shown jealousy during missions, or afterward, never once asked for reassurance that James would come back to him.  Instead, he demanded his return.  He laid his cards on the table and expected James to do the same.  He didn’t offer compromises, didn’t ask for promises.  This was what they were, and this was what they would be until one of them folded.

 

Shortly after the knowledge that he’d been dating Q for over three years came the understanding, as terrible as it was, that he depended on Q.  He expected him to be there, in London, when he returned from missions.  He expected his wit and his sarcasm over the comms, his guidance in dark or dreary places, his presence in the dead of night.  Slowly, and without his express permission, Q’s life became his.  He’d sold his flat, given him everything in the event of his death, and occasionally even brought back equipment in one piece.

 

And yet, still something nagged at him.  As he approached his eighth month in Iceland, and sixth month dark, James’s traitorous mind started supplying him with the idea that Q might have moved on, that he might be in someone else’s bed right that moment, that he might even have forgotten him.  It didn’t matter how many times he pushed the thoughts away, or convinced himself that Q would still be there, it became a pit of dread in his stomach.  He felt, intimately, like he was losing Vesper all over again.

 

When Vesper asked him, a few months before she betrayed him, if he’d ever considered marriage, he laughed at her.

 

When, later that night, he posed the same question to Q, he expected everything but the response he got.  Q doesn’t understand why it would make it easier, and, truthfully, James isn’t entirely sure, either.  All he knows is that when he came home to find that Q had sold his flat, a hot coal settled at the base of his spine, and only burned brighter when he watched Q interact with the newest, male agent.  All he knows is that, when Q said yes, his bones started to settle again, started to cool.

 

This was it.  This was the beginning of the rest of his life, a notion James had never thought possible.  He can see clearly, for the first time in decades, the shape of his life.  All he has to do is survive the next two years.

 

“Well.”  M’s voice blinks him out of last night and into right now.  He lifts one blonde eyebrow.  “You’ll have to be cleared.”

 

“And then?” James asks.

 

M spreads his hands, palms open.  It would be an inviting gesture if he hadn’t just sent James to his death.  “I am no fool to think your future lies in my hands any longer,” he says.

 

James nods once, and stands.  He’d never met with his M in anything but a crisp, freshly pressed suit—at least, not on MI-6’s grounds—never allowed her to see any weaknesses, but his ribs still hurt, despite being mostly healed, and he’d woken up with his shoulder throbbing, so when M stands opposite him, dangerous men facing off, James is tired, and it shows.  His navy trousers are clean and unwrinkled, but there’s a few stray, orange hairs near the hem of the left leg after Oscar tried to wriggle his way under his pants as he was tying his shoes, and the long sleeve, grey button-up is tucked in, but lacking a tie or a suit jacket.  The scarf trailing out of his coat pocket is most definitely a Harry Potter one, as well, though he’d tried to hide the Slytherin emblem before he walked in.

 

Still, M regards him with something like uncertainty.  James Bond is still a dangerous, unpredictable man, but his lust has been satiated, and his wildness calmed.  He has begun to dig his roots in deeper, and M suspects he’ll never pull them back out again.

 

“One thing before you go, Bond,” he says finally.  James quirks that blonde eyebrow again as he shrugs into his coat, shoving the scarf farther into the pocket.  “Heedless of the mandatory retirement age, I would hazard a guess that we only have a few years left of service with you.  Please do try not to die in those years.”

 

“I never actively _try_ to die,” James says, buttoning up his coat.

 

M concedes that by inclining his head, and amends, “Please try not to let any harm befall our quartermaster.  His retirement should be in old age, and should be bittersweet.”

 

“I would rather die,” James says honestly, and leaves before M can press further.

 

Outside, Eve is tapping away at her laptop, though she smiles like a cat ready, at last, to pounce on the canary when James tugs the door shut behind him.  “Nearly three hours,” she says, still typing, “That might be a record.”

 

“I aim to please,” James says, pausing at her desk.  He rearranges the order of her pens as he asks, ignoring her canary-nibbling smile as it turns into a wicked frown, “Have any plans this evening, Moneypenny?”

 

“You know full well that I do,” she says, and reaches over to smack his hand away from the pens.  He pockets it before she can.  “Whatever did you do to my Q?”

 

“Nothing,” James says, heading for the door.  Nearly on the other side, he adds, “Yet.”

 

——

 

“Quartermaster!”

 

Q, ever a professional, drops behind the open boot of one of the newer Martin’s, an honest to god machine gun in his hands.  There’s a blowtorch next to his knee, and an alarming heap of bullets in the open boot.  Overall, not the most compromising situation he’s ever been in, but easily near the top.

 

He waits for Arjuna’s voice to echo through the lab, informing whoever’s come to bother him that he’s rather tied up at the moment, but it never comes.  Belatedly, he checks his watch and finds that it’s lunchtime.

 

“Oh, bother,” he mutters, and stands up, taking the blowtorch with him.  0011 is tossing a grenade—a _grenade_ —from hand to hand while he looks around.  Q makes some noise under his breath about babysitting children masquerading as deadly assassins and clatters out from behind the car.  “0011,” he says sternly.

 

Bradley turns, grinning openly.  “Ah, Q,” he says, “Oh.”  His gaze shifts to the machine gun.

 

Q drops it onto a stand on one of his tables and plucks the grenade from his hand.  “This is not a toy,” Q says, holding it out between them, “And I’m not sure why I have to clarify that.”

 

“Q,” Bradley says, pretending to be chastised.

 

“What can I help you with, 0011?” Q asks as he loops the table to set the grenade down somewhere safe.

 

“Reporting for— _what_ is that?  Q, that’s an alarming amount of grease.  Whatever have you done to that poor car?”

 

Q quickly looks himself over—old jeans tearing at the ankles, hugging his thighs in a way James had groaned about this morning, ratty Converse in desperate need of replacement, and a shirt with the faded Jurassic Park logo.  Nothing is amiss.  “For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, thinking of his face, but then 0011 steps around the table with the ease and grace of a lioness, and carefully lifts Q’s arm, fingers wrapping around his wrist.

 

“Q,” he says in a warm, bright voice.  He turns his arm over, inspecting the honeycomb tattoo.  “Why, I never.”

 

With fury brimming at his edges, Q twists his wrist out of 0011’s hold—or tries to.  Bradley tightens his fingers minutely, but enough to keep Q in place.  Q opens his mouth to tell him where to go how and just exactly how to get there when Bradley continues, “Who’s your artist?”

 

Q tries to pull away again.  “Q,” Bradley sighs, and finally lifts his gaze.  Q’s expression attempts at murderous, and he thinks it might work to some extent because Bradley’s pale eyes flash with something like surprise.  “I’ve been trying to catch you alone,” he says.

 

Q’s murderous expression flickers out of existence as this registers with him.  He opens his mouth in shock, and a laugh tumbles out.  It’s hollow, and warped with hard edges, and Bradley frowns in response.  Q yanks his arm back, and snatches up a gun when Bradley takes a step forward.  “Is there something you need, 0011?” Q demands.  His words are short, leaving no room for any kind of misunderstanding.

 

He has the gall to look hurt.  “Q,” he says, his voice pitched low, “I hardly think it’s in good taste to be brandishing a gun at one of MI-6’s finest.”

 

“ _Finest_ ,” Q deadpans.  He holds his aim for a second longer, and then drops his arm, taking a step back.  “If you’ve a mission to be outfitted for, go to Q branch, 0011.  R is more than capable of handling you.”

 

Bradley waves a dismissive hand, and casually steps toward Q.  “R is capable, yes, but not quite as thorough as you are.”

 

Q shifts the gun in his hand, glances at it.  It’s one of the newly modified Walther’s, and the palm print shows three red dots.  He swears silently, and then aloud, “I hardly think this conversation is in good taste.”

 

“Q.”  It comes out more a purr than anything, and Q considers using the gun to bludgeon him in the head if he can’t shoot it.  Instead, he sets the Walther down on the table, puts his back to 0011, and strides away to his desk.  He moves fast enough that Bradley is still a few steps behind him when he turns again, using his desk as both a barrier and as a pretense for making tea.

 

“Get out, 0011,” he snaps, brandishing a hand in the general direction of the door, “And pray that I don’t send you out with a water pistol next time.”

 

Instead, Bradley leans one hip against his desk and smirks, fucking _smirks_ , at Q.  “I have a better idea,” he says.

 

Q barks a laugh at him, and opens one of his drawers to retrieve both a bag of tea and the gun stored there.  What he finds is a box of tea, and nothing else.  Q’s heart trips up into his throat, but he carefully selects a bag and straightens.  Bradley looks positively violent as he continues to smirk at him.

 

“You,” Q reminds him, “have a wife.”

 

Bradley scoffs.  “Hardly relevant,” he says.

 

Somewhere, echoing through the bowels of the lab, the door opens.  Before they can be interrupted, Bradley strides forward two steps, one to the edge of the desk, and the second around the corner, his fingers trailing lightly over the clutter there.  Q jerks back, grabs the first thing he sees, and stabs a jagged hole through Bradley’s shirt cuff and into the desk beneath him with a letter opener.  The punch is fueled entirely through instinct and rage, and though he doubts it does much, his knuckles still smart when he neatly sidesteps Bradley and glares at him from a safe distance.

 

“The hell is your problem?” Bradley spits, cradling his jaw in one hand.

 

“ _My_ problem?” Q carefully doesn’t let his voice go shrill, “God fucking damn it.  _Fuck_.”  He shakes out his hand, and turns halfway, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

He doesn’t hear a single footstep approach, but the very subtle smell of sandalwood drifts over to him, and his shoulders go a little higher as he says, “This is exactly what it looks like, 007.”

 

Bradley, to Q’s surprise, startles and twists to face James, who is leveling his deadly aim at a spot between Bradley’s eyebrows.  It takes six seconds.  “ _No_ ,” Bradley grinds out.

 

James’s face remains a solid wall of nothingness, though Q can see the monster lurking just behind his pale, cold eyes.  “How was your debrief?” Q asks politely.

 

“Three hours,” James says easily, “Medical hasn’t cleared me.”

 

Q scoffs.  “Well, that’s hardly a surprise,” he says, and gives Bradley a wide berth.  He doesn’t touch James as he walks past, but there’s not much by way of space between them when he does.  Bradley yanks the letter opener free from the desk, and shakes out his sleeve.  James shoots the wall an inch shy of his temple when he starts to walk.  Bradley freezes, his face a careful mask.

 

“Call your dog, Q,” he says.

 

“I’m installing a machine gun function in the latest line of Martin’s,” Q says as he lifts said gun from its holder again.  “Well, attempting to.”

  
James gives Bradley a second longer to piss himself, and then lowers the Walther, flicking the safety on.  “Front or rear?” he asks.

 

“Unless you’ve suddenly developed a penchant for driving backward, it’s going in the rear,” Q says.

 

“And if I have?”

 

“Then I recommend you throw yourself, and the bloody car, in the widest river you can manage.”

 

“Not an ocean?” James teases, finally turning so that Bradley thinks he’s in the clear.

 

“As long as it’s the Pacific,” Q says, and heads back to the car, gun in hand.  “0011, was I not clear?  _Get out_.”

 

“Q, I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Bradley says, coming around the desk.  He tries to walk past James, who claps an unfriendly hand on his shoulder and yanks him to a stop.  When he levels James with a menacing glare, James smiles awfully at him.

 

“Really,” James says, squeezing his shoulder, “You’re pushing your luck.  I’m feeling charitable today.  Listen to your quartermaster.”

 

Bradley twists out from under James’s hand.  Q watches James let him do it as he stops at the car and sets the gun down on its hood.  “No wonder M sent you to die,” is his last parting remark before Bradley strides angrily from the lab, his footfalls loud and childish.

 

“Charitable?” Q echoes.

 

James shrugs.  “He’s got an exploding pen in his pocket.”

 

“You’re insufferable,” Q says, and disappears behind the car again.

 

“I must admit, I’m truly sorry I ever thought it possible you’d taken up with that.”

 

“Speaking of!” Q exclaims, and proceeds to knock his head off the boot as he straightens abruptly.  “Son of a— _Christ_.  What time is it?  Are you free?”

 

James looks far too happy when he comes back out from behind the car.  “Abandoning your post _again_ in so short a time?  Q, whatever has gotten into you?”

 

Q stops at the front of the car, and leans against it, folding his arms over his chest.  “You, hopefully,” he says.

 

James’s mouth quirks up on one side.  “Speaking of?” he repeats Q’s earlier exclamation.

 

“Right,” Q says, and pushes away from the car to go back over to his cluttered desk.  He unearths his messenger bag, rifles through it, and finally holds up a piece of paper victoriously.  He sets it down in between a machete and a dismantled sniper rifle.  “Sign, please.”

 

James comes over, plucks a pen from somewhere in a stack of boxes housing bullets, and his pale, cold eyes spark with something like fire when he sees what Q’s set down on the desk.  Q, to his credit, merely lifts one eyebrow and adjusts his glasses.  “Were you not serious?” he asks.

 

“How’d you get this so quickly?” James asks, and then immediately, “Don’t start.  I’m aware that was an idiotic question.”

 

“As long as we’re both on the same page,” Q says evenly.

 

James starts to sign, and then notices there’s already a signature on one of the lines.  It’s in an unhurried, messy scrawl, but James recognizes it from post-it notes and the margins of books and shopping lists.  That, and he can easily read the name etched permanently onto the paper.  He absorbs the last name, promptly forgets it, and signs in one fluid motion.  When he straightens, Q is watching him.

 

“Another idiotic question,” James says, “Is this smart?”

 

“Oh, it’ll be burned as soon as it’s official,” Q says, “And all copies destroyed.  But I thought—well, I thought it would be nice, to not be bound by a fake name.”

 

“And is this it?”

 

Q rolls his eyes, the carefully concealed uncertainty shrugged away.  “Because we’re apparently still living in the Cretaceous era, it needs to be stamped and paraded about and overseen by the Lord on high Himself, or something equally ridiculous.  But almost.  Why, cold feet?” Q teases.

 

James smiles fondly at him.  “Have you told your brothers yet?” he asks.

 

Q laughs, and reaches for the marriage license, folding it back up.  “That will, inevitably, lead to something truly terrible.”

 

“Brunch?” James guesses.

 

“Oh, much worse,” Q says, “And you’ll behave, or I’ll burn a hole straight through that black heart.”

 

Q starts to head back for the car, but James catches his wrist, tugs him back.  There are a thousand and one things he could say, even ones that he wants to say, but Q is close enough to kiss, so he does.

 

——

 

November bleeds into December in a flurry of snow, hail that rains down sideways, and more ice than should ever be necessary.  Q falls on his ass no less than six times in the first week, and is actually in enough discomfort that he goes down to medical and finds out he’s bruised his tailbone.  James laughs uproariously at that, so Q throws a switchboard so precisely that it clips him on the shoulder and cuts him open.  They’re at home, thank god, because then Q’s being pinned to the sofa and given the best head of his entire fucking life.

 

The next day, there are suspicious little nuggets of rock salt scattered across the front steps and the immediate path away from the flat.  As a reward, Q sends James down into the range to try out the Walther he’s been modifying, and if he snorts straight into a laugh when James comes back covered in soot, no one calls him out on it.

 

James has taken to wearing an earpiece regardless of his location, whether he’s at home, out in the city, or around MI-6.  More often than not, Q can’t be arsed to talk to him what with the sudden influx of missions, but very occasionally, he gets to tap in just for a hello, or sometimes a quick chat about the weather, how much James hates psych, or once—and only once, Q suspects it’ll never happen again—to hear James’s rapid fire breathing in the dead of night while he’s caught up with eight million things to do.  His first thought is that he’s switched over to their private line to hear James in the middle of satisfying himself while Q is busy _working_ , but then there’s no rhythm to the breaths, no sound other than them, and they keep hitching higher and tighter, too fast, too angry, and Q swears elegantly before he locks himself in his office, and talks James down out of a panic attack.  There’s the distinct sound of the line cutting as soon as he’s himself again, and they don’t speak about it the next day.

 

It’s not like Q’s a stranger to James’s nightmares, but this is the first time he’s ever, in almost four years, seen him lose control like that.  He considers asking what provoked it, but he’s rather fond of all of his limbs, and so keeps his questions to himself.

 

Eve tells him this is unhealthy, but she’s still sore that she didn’t know until after they were married—though Q keeps reminding her it wasn’t official until after he told her—so he doesn’t spit in her drink like he wants to.  Regardless, it would be unbecoming, and they’re expecting Bill any second now, so he’d rather not be seen like that.

 

His brothers are planning some extravagant Christmas brunch that he’s been cordially invited to, though Desmond tells him it’s less of an invitation, more of a threat on his life if he doesn’t come.  They were both significantly easier to tell and absolutely wretched about it.  They knew immediately that something was up when he group texted them to ask if they wanted to get dinner and drinks.  It only got worse when he told them not to panic, but he had something they would consider important to tell them.  Immediately, they began speculating.

 

Connor’s were undoubtedly the worst, spanning from: _guys, he’s coming out.  This is it.  The truth awaits us.  Oh, holy grail of gayness!_ ; to: _listen, if you’ve gotten yourself into a pinch with the government, don’t fucking ask for bail.  Your new apartment is posh as shit, dickhat._

Desmond, in the spirit of being the oldest, tries to be polite: _Ro, man.  My brother.  My dude._ (Shae interjects: _Romans!  Countrymen!_   Connor follows up with: _Would I were steadfast as thou art!_ )   _Rule number one: do not fall in love with your kidnappers._ ; and ends up as much of an ass as the rest of them: _is it the new cat?  Because you’ve already cross-posted on so many social media accounts that the entire world thinks you’re a deranged cat lady.  Have you learned to stitch yet?_

Shae, permanently Q’s favorite, either because they’re closest in age or because Shae’s always kind of understood—well, everything—disappoints him in a blaze of glory: _nah, it’s cos he got married, AND DIDN’T FUCKING TELL US._

Really, Q wishes they could see his face when he gets this text because _how_ and, more importantly, _HOW_.  Even R asks him if he’s okay, and Q nearly dives headlong into his laptop to find out if there’s a copy of the certificate swimming out there somehow.  When there isn’t, he goes back into his messages to see if he’s misread, and there’s a new one from Shae.

 

_HOLY SHIT I WAS KIDDING ROWAN TELL ME YOU FUCKING DIDN’T_

Q, resigned, only says, _I’d really rather have this conversation face-to-face_.

 

He valiantly ignores his vibrating phone for the rest of the day, and even tosses it into a drawer at random when R sighs loudly.  When, finally, it’s time for dinner and drinks, his brothers have all convened on their favorite restaurant a good hour before he gets there, and he accuses all of them of treason until they descend upon him, mumbling their congratulations as they hug him.  Overall, it’s one of the more enjoyable nights he’s had with them.

 

It’s also the first night that he feels like someone is following him.  They leave the restaurant relatively early and decide to walk, despite the brisk winter night, to a bar nearby.  Q’s caught up in the middle of them, Shae with an arm looped around his shoulders and Connor jostling him every few steps, either on purpose or accidentally, Q can’t decide, when he feels the unmistakable shiver of being snuck up on crawl down his spine.  Instinctually, Q looks over his shoulder, frowning at the empty sidewalk behind them.

 

It doesn’t stop there.  He refrains from looking over his shoulder, but the whole walk to the bar, he feels unsettled, like someone is lurking in the shadows just out of sight.  He shakes it off when they tuck inside the warmth of the bar.  He teases his brothers about checking in with their wives after they order, and they give him shit for no less than fifteen straight minutes after they wrestle his phone out of his hand and can’t get into it, but they’re sure, _absolutely positive_ , that he’s texted James to let him know he’ll be late.  He hasn’t, but they don’t need to know that, so he lets them have their fun and forgets about the uneasy feeling outside.

 

It’s not until after, when it’s later than any of them planned on, and they’re all back out under a dark sky with a pale half moon, clouds obscuring the stars, that it comes slithering back.  Desmond drives Connor after swearing on his life that he’ll drive safe when Q frowns at him, and he’s left alone with Shae, who’s already calling a cab.  Q lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, where the short hairs there are standing up, and turns.  He swears he sees a shadow shift, and he freezes, staring at the alley next to the bar.

 

“—share a cab?” he hears the tail end of Shae’s question as his brother comes up behind him.

 

Q jumps, spinning back to face Shae.  “What?” he says.

 

“Do you want to share a cab?” he asks, “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Q mumbles as he starts digging around in his jacket for his phone, “I’m just going to—” he cuts himself off as he hears something like footsteps from behind him.  Q inhales slowly, finds his phone, and presses a button on the back before he turns.

 

A group of inappropriately dressed girls are giggling as they go past.

 

“Dude, what’s wrong?” Shae asks.

 

Q blows out a breath, and lifts out his phone to close out the alarm on his phone.  It shuts down with three seconds left, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not safe.  “Sorry,” he says, shaking his head.  He unlocks his phone, swipes over to his messages, and looks up at Shae.  “Yes to the cab.  I’m just going to—” he makes an aborted motion with his phone.

 

“Text your hubby to let him know you’re on your way home for some loving,” Shae teases.

 

Q grimaces.  “That sounds just awful,” he mutters, though he does open a new message to James.

 

He types quickly, efficiently— _potentially being followed.  taking a cab back with Shae._ —sending it without further information just in case he gets bludgeoned in the back of the head while trying to give details.

 

“Shae,” Q says, and reaches for his brother.  He curls a hand around his elbow, and tugs him back toward the bar door.

 

“It’ll be here in two seconds,” Shae complains.

 

Q doesn’t respond other than to drag Shae back into the bar.  His phone buzzes once they’re inside.  He glances at the message— _fuck that, I’m coming to get you_ —and looks over toward the window at the front of the bar.  He wants to tell Shae, but doesn’t feel comfortable saying it out loud, so he dashes off a fast message, elbows Shae in the ribs when he starts to make noise about texting him when they’re right next to each other, and turns to put his back to the window, scanning the bar for anyone menacing looking.

 

“Alright,” Shae says softly, “Are you sure?”

 

“No,” Q says, “But better safe than sorry.  How’s Reagan?”

 

Shae takes the bait, either willingly or because he can sense what Q’s doing, “Man, he’s growing up so fast, it’s crazy.  And get this, he looks like mom.”

 

“Really?” Q says, lifting an eyebrow as he keeps looking around the bar, “That’s surprising.”

 

“You’re telling me,” Shae says, “Between Kelli’s blonde hair and blue eyes, and my brown hair and brown eyes, I don’t know where he came from.  He’s got that dark haired, tall stranger vibe going.”

 

“Tall?  He’s four,” Q reminds him.

 

“Yeah, and he’s a fucking tree already.  We’re signing him up for tee ball in the summer.  Oh, shut up,” he adds when Q groans, finally turning his attention back to his brother in time for the door to open.

 

Q carefully doesn’t look at the newcomer, but files away noticeable details as he says, “I was counting on him.  None of the girls are interested in maths in the slightest.”

 

“Not true,” Shae says, “Devon’s been getting into space.  Ask Connor.  She’s been drenching the Barbie’s in ketchup because she’s pretending she’s in the middle of an alien invasion, and they’re casualties.”

 

Q shakes his head fondly, grinning.  The woman who’s just walked in sits at the bar, but Q watches her shoulders shift when she glances at them.  Pretending to slouch, Q adjusts the strap of his messenger bag and discreetly drops his hand into it, fingers reaching to curl around the gun in there.

 

Shae’s voice is barely a whisper, “Please don’t shoot anyone.”

 

Q blinks, and gives Shae his full attention.  “What?” he says.

 

“I know exactly what you’re doing right now, and I’ll have you know, I am _not_ good with blood.  Can you even shoot properly?”

 

Q heaves an insufferable sigh, and glances at the window.  Headlights stripe across the dark night, bouncing off a car parked there.  “Come on,” he says, and herds Shae toward the door.  He loathes putting his back to the bar, but he’ll be damned if he’s letting Shae go behind him.

 

Back out into the night, James is just getting out of his car, his whole body wired with tension.  His gaze glances right off Q and Shae, and takes in the area around them.  “Did you steal this?” Q asks as he crosses the distance between the bar and James, Shae still in front of him.

 

“Temporarily appropriated,” James says, “Get in.”

 

“This feels like a hostage situation,” Shae says as Q yanks open the back door and gives his brother a gentle shove to get in.

 

Q doesn’t respond other than to shut the door behind him, walk around the car, and get in on the passenger side.  James follows suit only when his door has shut.  Immediately, Q tugs out his laptop, and flips it open as James looks back at Shae.  “All good?” he asks.

 

“I mean, not exactly,” Shae says, “Were we really being followed?”

 

“Q?” James asks.

 

“Honestly, I’m not _that_ good.  Give us more than a second, thanks.”

 

James doesn’t respond other than to pull away from the curb.  They drive in silence, punctuated only by the sound of Q’s quick fingers on keys, until Shae suddenly pipes up, “Wait, you know where I live?  Or not,” he adds when James makes a sudden right turn.

 

“Yes,” Q says distractedly because he knows James better than to expect a response from him, “But driving straight to yours is just inviting someone in.  Don’t worry, I’m— _shit_.”  The expletive comes out more of an exhale than a spoken word, but he still feels James’s eyes bounce off him in question.  There’s no way he’ll ever be able to identify the person, but he’s zoomed in on a still image from the nearby, and grainy, CCTV footage to reveal the shadow of a person several steps behind them when they’d been walking to the bar.  There’s another, a few minutes later, of the same shape tucking into the alley next to the bar just after they entered.

 

“Can we panic now?” Shae asks in an unsurprisingly superb imitation of Ron Weasley’s voice.  He’s leaned forward, hands wrapped around Q’s headrest, and frowning at the images.

 

“Keep driving,” Q says before he reaches to tap a button on the dashboard.  A small compartment opens up, and he plucks an earpiece from it, wiggling it in snugly.

 

For the next twenty minutes, James drives, creating an impossible trail to follow, as Q dispatches security to each of his brother’s houses.  He conferences Desmond and Connor to let them know what’s going on, hands his phone off to Shae when they’re not doing much more than speculating, and calls M.

 

It takes a few rings, but then he answers with, “What’s wrong?”

 

Q glances at the clock on the dash, and winces.  It’s past one.  “Sorry for calling so late,” Q says quickly, “But someone’s keeping up to date with my nightly habits.”

 

“Any idea who?” M asks.

 

“Not yet.  Probably not at all,” Q admits, “They’re good.”

 

“007?”  It’s a question he can tell M doesn’t want to ask because it’s a step toward confirming that he knows about their relationship, but he asks nonetheless.

 

“Driving, at the moment,” Q says, “I wasn’t alone.”

  
M sighs tiredly.  “Have you already sent agents to their houses?” he asks.

 

“With permission, I’d like to keep them there until this has been resolved.”

 

“Absolutely,” M says, “We can connect in the morning about a timetable.  Are you safe for now?”

 

Q looks over at James.  Four years ago, he would have said yes, he didn’t need extra security because his own was over the top already, and no one would be able to break in.  Now, he says yes because of that, but also because he knows that, short of death, James will stop at nothing to keep him safe.

 

“Yes,” he says, “Thank you.”

 

“I’m hanging up, then, Q.  Let me know of any developments.”

 

Eventually, they pull up outside of Shae’s place.  James bristles when Q starts to get out, but one quick look pins him into place.  Q gets out with his brother, walks him to his door, and turns halfway as Shae starts to unlock it.  “There’s a car parked a few down,” he says quietly, “It will change every day, but let me know if _anything_ is amiss, okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Shae says distractedly, nudging the door open.  He looks at Q, frowning.  “Are you sure you’re going to be fine?”

 

“In answer to your earlier question,” Q says evenly, “Yes, I can shoot a gun properly.  Not as lethally as James can, but with the same kind of aim.”

 

“So he does kill people for a living,” Shae says.

 

Q doesn’t let his face show anything, but his lack of response is answer enough as he starts back down the front steps.  He doesn’t get in the car until Shae’s front door is closed again, and when he does, James reaches over for his hand, lifts it to his mouth, and just rests his mouth there.  It’s somehow more intimate than if he’d kissed him.  He can feel James’s warm exhale fan out over his fingers, the gentle press of his lips as they relax out of the grimace he’s been wearing.  He lifts away just enough to actually kiss his knuckles, and then releases Q’s hand.  “Why are you always getting into trouble?” he says as he puts the car in drive and pulls away from the curb.

 

“Life’s more fun that way,” Q says, and James huffs a soundless laugh.

 

“I’m not into necrophilia,” he says.

 

Q rolls his eyes, and hides his grin as he tips his head against the window, eyes flicking up to the barely there stars.

 

When, eventually, they get home, it’s to Oscar crying shrilly.  He’s got himself tangled in the blinds at one of the windows, and while Q extracts him, James cleans up the mess of tipped over food that Joyce has made.  He blames it on her because she’s sitting nearby proudly, and Keats is already curled up for sleep in the bedroom.  Q absolutely coddles Oscar, holding the tiny orange kitten against him with one arm while he tries to undress with the other.  When James has finished refilling the bowl and comes into the bedroom, he plucks the kitten from Q and promises to give him back once he’s acting like an adult again.

 

And really, he should be used to this by now, but when they turn out the lights and climb into bed, Q curls up on his side with Oscar huddled against his chest, and James sidles up behind him, wrapping a thick, warm arm around him, though he’s not quite touching him, and Q laughs into the night.  He would try to scoot backward, but Keats has claimed his territory in between them, and though he can’t feel her, he imagines Joyce has nudged James’s legs open enough that she’s as close to him as she can get.

 

“I hope you realize this means we need a fourth cat,” Q says.

 

James presses a firm, hot kiss against his bare shoulder.  “And why, pray tell?” he murmurs the words across Q’s skin.

 

“Two boys, one girl,” Q says, “It’s uneven.”

 

“Are there even anymore dead, white men you can name them after?” James teases.  His kiss turns into the scrape of teeth, and Q ignores the fire that lazily crawls up his spine.

 

“Rilke,” Q says immediately.

 

“That doesn’t even sound remotely like a potential girl name,” James muses.

 

“His mother wanted him to be a girl so badly that she named him Maria.”

 

“That’s cruel.”

 

“It was—stop that,” he says, letting a little sharpness bleed into his words, when James starts to bite him.

 

And really, he should be used to this by now, but when James obeys, leaving him with a last kiss, it cracks open something inside Q.  He never thought he’d have this, someone to sleep with at night that didn’t get bothered by his cats on the bed, someone that was content to just _sleep_ , and it still tips his world off its axis sometimes.  And when James mumbles a soft goodnight, Q can’t stop his smile.  He’s never been so happy.

 

——

 

Despite the rotating schedule of agents lingering outside their houses, Q’s brothers almost immediately begin Christmas brunch plans.  Q suspects that the entire family will be there because James has been invited, and it’s on _Christmas morning_ at Desmond’s, but there’s really nothing he can do to avoid it.  He can’t even go with the excuse that he forgot to mention it because R has unearthed the old, Italian grandmother that lives in a dark corner of his soul upon Q branch.

 

Really, after Halloween, he thought Nala might set up a tree and a menorah, maybe hang some tinsel from the rafters, and even get everyone to participate in a Secret Santa swap.  What he does not expect is to walk in on the Monday before Christmas, a full _week_ before the holiday, to find a _twelve-foot tree_ being decorated at the very back of the branch, obscuring the plant corner.  Q stops short just inside his branch, tea sloshing out onto his hand, and doesn’t even notice the hot liquid burning his skin because R is on a ladder, first of all, wearing the most hideous sweater Q has ever seen, and that’s saying a lot, second of all, and is tossing a string of popcorn to Julian, whose on a ladder on the other side of the tree, third of all.

 

“Well,” someone says from behind him.

 

“002,” he says without looking over his shoulder.

 

“This is simply lovely, Q,” Charles says, and steps around him to stride over to the tree.  As he admires the decorating, and even asks if he can help, Q comes to a stop at Nala’s desk.

 

“What the hell?” he asks.

 

Nala finishes off an email, and swivels her screen to Q.  He bends at the waist a little, squinting as he reads.  His spine goes stiff, his shoulders a solid line of anger as he straightens up.  “I’m putting a ban on his access to the floor,” Q mutters before he pivots to face Nala.  “Are you okay?” he asks.

 

“I’m fine,” she says, shrugging, “I’ve had worse catcalled at me while walking home.”

 

Q flaps an aggravated hand at the screen, where the email is still sitting.  “ _That_ is not acceptable,” he says, “I don’t care if you’ve had worse.  This is a professional environment.  If he’s not going to treat you with respect, and _hell_ , you deserve a lot more respect than his cheating ass does considering you’re leagues more intelligent and capable than him, then something’s to be done.”

 

“Q,” Nala says, her eyebrows drawing together in concern.

 

“No,” Q says, and sets down his mug a little violently on her desk, “Am I CC’d on that?”

 

“Yes,” she says, “But—”

 

“Good.  Does he have a mission coming up?”

 

“Q,” Nala says, turning in her chair to face him, “M expressly said not to tamper with the double oh’s equipment, regardless of how much they’ve pissed you off.”

 

“I’m not pissed off,” Q snaps, “I’m furious.  And you should be, too.  Why aren’t you furious?”

 

Nala sighs.  “I am,” she says, “But M’s just going to keep hiring jerks like Bradley, so what does it really matter?”

 

“ _Nala_.”

 

“Incoming,” Ivo says on his way past with an armful of tinsel.

 

Q looks over toward the main monitors at the same time Nala looks back at the doors.  Her expression twists into something that looks distinctly like she’s trying not to cry, and Q makes up his mind as he turns away from the monitors.  “Tell me what you want me to do,” he says softly, watching Nala bite her lip, watching her jaw clench before she spins back to face her laptop.

 

“It’s fine,” she mutters, “Don’t bother.  I’m not even going to send it.”

 

Q nods once, and pivots to face the doors as 0011 pulls one of them open.  He’s chatting amicably with 003, though he flashes a teasing grin Q’s way when he spots him.  They both walk over easily, their conversation drifting off when they stop at Nala’s desk.  “Q,” Luis says, though his attention has drifted to the tree, “That’s what—ten feet?”

 

Nala sniffs, and says, “Twelve.  We’re putting up a menorah next.”  She gives 003 a smile, though it’s lacking in every way, and he notices.

 

He frowns, and looks to Q, who is trying very hard not to let his hands shake, though they’re curled into tight fists at his sides.  “0011,” he says.

 

“Q,” Nala whispers.

 

“I think you owe Nala an apology,” Q says, “And I’ll be speaking with M about the way you spoke to her.”

 

Immediately, the atmosphere around them changes.  Luis steps back and turns to regard Bradley, his expression carefully schooled, though Q can easily see the building anger in his eyes and the way he holds his shoulders.  Charles circles around to the other side of Nala’s desk, hands crossed over his chest, one discreetly wrapped around the gun beneath his jacket.

 

0011, of course, merely smiles.  “Q,” he says, “It was hardly anything to get so up in arms about.”

 

Q opens his mouth at the same time Nala jerks upright, her chair sailing backward.  “Hardly anything?” she repeats.  Her voice is even, and not nearly as loud as Q wants to be.  She takes a step forward, and glares hatefully up at Bradley.  “You made a lewd comment about my _breasts_ , and then asked if I wanted to share a hotel room as a celebration for your expected mission success.”

 

All at once, and with absolutely no warning, a pinecone whips through the air and neatly pings Bradley across the forehead.  “You did _what_?” R explodes as he scrambles down the ladder.

 

“I have been kind to you because most of these agents are sharks, and will bite your fucking head off,” Nala seethes before she jabs a finger into Bradley’s chest.  He takes a step back, looking around wildly as R advances and 002 frees his gun, holding it with ease.  Q merely shrugs when Bradley looks to him for help.  “I provided mission support because that is my _job_ , and I will not tolerate being sexually _assaulted_ because you’re too busy having some Indian girl fantasy.  And don’t even get me started on the things you’ve said to Q.”

 

If possible, the atmosphere gets tighter, angrier.  003 says, his voice a thin, sharp line, “Get out.”

 

“I have a mission to be outfitted for,” 0011 says, squaring his shoulders.

 

“No,” 002 says, “You don’t.  Nala?”

 

“I’m done with him,” she says.

 

“I’m not,” R says, and hurls another pinecone at him.  This one, he tries to dodge, and ends up getting hit in the throat.

 

“Q?” 003 asks even as 002 comes around to grab 0011 by the upper arm.

 

“We’ll connect with M.  Thank you.”  Luis nods, and goes to help Charles steer Bradley out of the branch.

 

“Don’t,” Nala says, pointing accusingly at one of the minions as she starts to clap.

 

“Back to work,” Q says, his words clipping at the ends, before he turns to Nala.  “Are you okay?” he asks again.

 

She swallows, and looks away from him, shrugging.  “Been better,” she says, “Been worse.”

 

“When did it happen?”

 

“Last night.  I stayed late to finish up a project, and he was still loitering around.  No one else was here,” she adds as he starts to ask just that.  She finally looks back up at him, and her eyes are wide and red.  “Can I have a hug?” she asks softly, “I know you don’t like them, but—” she’s cut off as Q steps close, and wraps his arms around her.

 

“I can have him killed discreetly, if you’d like,” he whispers.

 

Nala laughs brokenly, holding onto him.  “That’s okay,” she says, “I suspect Bond might actually get in trouble for that one.”

 

Q holds onto her for a moment longer, and then steps back, hands curling around her arms.  “Tell me immediately if something like this happens again,” he says, “I don’t care what these agents are capable of.  We will take care of it.”

 

“I was just—well, they’re all assassins,” she says, “What if his lines are a little blurry?”

 

“If Bond can bloody well stop himself from murdering without permission, then I’ll see to it that Bradley can.”

 

Nala gives him a wavering smile, and nods.  “Thank you, Q,” she says.

 

“If I tell you my flat is officially unpacked, will that make today better?”

 

Her smile solidifies, and she nods again.  “Yes,” she says, “I’ll send out invites.”

 

“Q branch only,” he says, “I don’t need those sharks knowing where I live.”

 

“No, just the worst of them?” she teases.

 

Q returns her smile, and then releases her to turn to R.  “Pinecones, really?” he says.

 

“I haven’t unpacked the ornaments yet,” R mutters, “They were all I had at hand.  Listen,” he adds, turning to Nala, “Wanna infect his mobile with one of those viruses you were working on?”

 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Q says, and takes his mug over to his desk.

 

The rest of the day is filled with far more Christmas spirit than Q has ever been able to stand, but Nala’s eyes start crinkling at the edges, and her smiles get a little more real, so he withstands it.

 

——

 

When he finally wraps up his day later than he wants to, around 8PM, Q spends a miserable hour on the tube because there’s been an incident somewhere up ahead.  By the time he finally gets off at his station, he’s grouchy from the long day and not enough caffeine, cold from the unending snow, and hungry enough that he stole a few mints from Eve’s desk when she was pretending not to look.  He wants nothing more than to heat up the Indian takeaway he thinks might still be good, find a cat or three, and curl up in bed with a book.

 

Edward greets him, and Q nods tiredly in response.  He ambles up the stairs, yawning every dozen or so steps, and he fumbles with getting the door open when he finally reaches his floor.  Inside, most of the lights are off, but he moves about easily, putting away his coat and shuffling through the short hallway.

 

The television is on, and Q stops at the edge of the kitchen, blinking rapidly.  “Are you watching Master Chef Junior?” he asks the dark.

 

James lifts a small tumbler of whiskey into the air.  He can’t see much of him, slouched into the sofa as he is.  It had once been a rare sight, seeing him so relaxed, but it’s becoming something Q’s almost accustomed to, and it occurs to him, rather belatedly, as he’s frowning at the contents of the fridge—all of which need to be cooked, and none of which are his Indian takeaway—that he’s going to miss coming home to him all the time.

 

Typically, there’s no noise when James moves, but he must have a cat because there’s the sound of him whispering soothingly.  He doesn’t hear him get off the sofa, though, or pad barefoot through the flat, but then he’s dropping a feather-light kiss at the nape of Q’s neck and setting Oscar on his shoulder.

 

“Hello, darling,” Q says, picking Oscar up to cradle him in his arms and nuzzle against his belly.

 

“How was work?” James asks.

 

“Long,” Q says, lifting his face to glare at the fridge again.  James has closed it, and is rummaging around on the island behind him.  “I had Indian in there,” Q says, finally turning.

 

James opens a box of pizza, and says, “It was growing mold.”

 

“I’m going to perish without you,” Q says as he comes over, all of his tiredness wiped away in the face of his favorite pizza—mushrooms, fresh mozzarella, and caramelized onions.

 

“Yes,” James agrees.  He touches one of Oscar’s ears lightly.  “Did you know cats are lactose intolerant?” he asks.

 

Q rolls his eyes.  “Who puked?” he asks.  James taps Oscar on the nose and goes to retrieve plates.  “Oh, it’s still hot,” Q groans when he leans in to sniff the pizza.

 

“I called it in when you said the tube was finally running again.  That was quite the series of texts, by the way.”

 

“I was dying,” Q complains, dumping into one of the seats.  He sets Oscar down on the table, holds up a stern finger when he tries to approach the pizza, and tears off a tiny piece of crust in reward when he sits down.

 

“That may be an exaggeration,” James says.

 

“Nope,” Q says, taking one of the plates, “Cause of death: boredom in the underground.”

 

“Sounds like a Holmes novel.”

 

“Speaking of,” Q says, selecting the largest and cheesiest piece, “Monster month, really?  A tad unoriginal.”

 

“I’ve never read _Frankenstein_ ,” James admits.

 

“Oh, for shame,” Q says, pausing with the slice halfway to his mouth, “ _Dracula_?”

 

“Nope.”

 

Q reaches over a hand to curl around Oscar’s head, covering his ears.  “Dorian Gray?”

 

“No,” James mouths, and looks meaningfully at Oscar, who’s trying to wiggle away from Q unsuccessfully.

 

Q releases him.  “This is unacceptable.”

 

“Hence monster month.”

 

“Well, we’re starting with the classics, then,” Q says, and finally starts in on his pizza.  During the hour of his untimely death on the tube, James had proposed co-reading books about monsters for the month, and Q had unashamedly pointed out that _co-reading_ was just a fancy word for a two-person book club before agreeing.

 

This, he thinks, he could get used to.  James at home in London rather than somewhere exotic, his voice a real, solid thing instead of crackling across technology, with food and cats and books and a smile that had felled lesser men and was starting to soften and crinkle at the edges.

 

This, he thinks, is something he never wants to give up, but they’ve had the retirement conversation, and they’ve agreed to play it out to the end, so Q doesn’t tell James that he’d rather him right here, as close as he can get him, than back under MI-6’s deadly hand.

 

——

 

Three days before Christmas, Q is at his desk, watching 005 approach a fairly massive compound, when it starts snowing.  _Inside_.

 

He doesn’t notice it at first, too preoccupied looking at the blueprints for the building and planning different escape routes, but then he has to shake out his hands because they’re cold, and finds that they’re not only cold, but wet, and that’s when he looks up.

 

“No,” he says.

 

R is nowhere in sight.  Neither are the twins or Ivo, which just makes him roll his eyes.  He taps out of 005’s line, scans through the cameras until he finds them, and opens the audio feed in the small hallway they’re gathered in.  He’s immediately met with R’s demand to, “—shut the bloody thing off.  He’s going to _kill us_.”  He’s standing with his hands on his hips, and he looks frustrated.

 

Rashmi mumbles resentfully, “He’s a freaking kitten.  The worst he could do is—”

 

“Oh, you want to test that theory, yeah?  You want to see how kitten-like the freaking overlord of all things dark and dangerous can be?”

  
“Well, at least I’m not the Wicked Witch of the West,” Q says.

 

Something clatters across the feed, out of sight of the camera, the snow stops falling, and R says, “If he doesn’t, I’m going to unleash the tiniest piece of malware on your networks that you’ve ever seen so that you can never find it.  If I ever catch you in here again playing with these wires, I’m bringing it directly to Q.  Do you understand?”

 

“But—” Roland tries.

 

“And _you_.  I thought, of everyone, you knew better.  Your brother is a lost cause at this point, but really, Roland?  I expected, at minimum, the good sense to know that messing around with the vents in a room full of malnourished nerds is a terrible sodding idea.  No, stop talking.  You’re giving me a headache.  The pair of you, _get_.”  There’s a breath of silence, which Q does not disrupt, as the twins make their way back down the hall, before R continues, “I am appalled at you.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Ivo says quietly.

 

“On what planet does letting those two in here sound like a good idea?”

 

“I know.  I just—my last job never let us celebrate the holidays, _any_ holidays, and I thought it was going to be the same way here, but it’s been so fun the past couple years, I thought—”

 

“I’m going to stop you right there,” R says, “Because I’m not buying into your woe is me bullshit.  Because _snow_?  This is work, Ivo, not a playground.”

 

Ivo nods once, and says, “I know.  I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.”

 

“Thank you.  Go.”

 

When Ivo’s gone, Q asks, “Where did you find them?”

  
“In the goddamn boiler room,” R mutters, “Is it still snowing up there?”

 

“No,” Q says, “Thank you.”

 

“Might I advise not allowing festivities for the New Year?” R asks.

 

“I think that’s fair.  Send out a memo for me?”  R lifts a thumb in the general direction of the camera, and Q closes out the audio feed to return to 005.

 

“Thought I’d lost you for a minute or two,” 005 says easily when he clicks back on.

 

“My apologies, 005,” he says, “It started snowing.”

 

“Inside?” Reese asks uncertainly.

 

“Inside,” Q confirms, “The thermal readings aren’t showing any guards in a half mile radius, but satellite imaging shows that they should be there.”

 

“I’m not seeing anything, either,” she says, “I don’t like this, Q.”

 

“Seconded.  Are you still out of sight?”

 

“Safe as life,” she says.

 

Q can see her, of course, carefully folded on top of one of many trucks.  There are about ten of them, all black, and all heavily armed, their already bulking shapes distorted by the extra machinery.  It’s late afternoon, and she’s not due to start moving until nightfall, which is only a few hours away, realistically, though Q can’t imagine the vibrant South American sun is all that bearable.

 

He looks away from his laptop only when he sees R return, who catches his eye and nods, coming over to take his empty mug.  He skips through the cameras mounted on the outside of the compound, trying to find the guards that should be patrolling 005’s area, and then trying to find any guards at all.  “Nothing,” he mutters distractedly.

 

“Nothing?” Reese repeats, “That sounds fun.”

 

“Perhaps,” Q says, “Hang tight, 005.”

 

He throws the camera feeds up onto one of the monitors, and starts hacking into their electrical system as R appears with his mug.  “I was thinking,” Q says.

 

“I concur with your line of thinking,” R says.

 

“Two things,” Q says, “I’d like to assign official team leads to properly monitor the department.  Thoughts?”

 

“Keira and Arjuna,” R says, “They can more than manage everyone.”

 

“Can you create titles for me, draft up something, and then let me know when you’re free to meet?  Thank you,” he adds as he reaches for the tea.

 

“Meet?” R repeats.  He sounds a little uncertain, though Q just keeps poking at the firewalls surrounding the compound’s electrical

 

“Your review is coming up,” Q says, “Unless I’m totally off my mark?”

 

“Nope, dead on, actually,” R says, “Uh, Nala, too?”

 

“Yes, if you could.  And R?”

 

“I’ve got a file full of resumes if you want to start looking at them again,” he says, perfectly reading Q’s mind.

 

Q flashes him a smile, and says, “Well, they’ll come home with me.”

 

“Hey, we got Faruq last time Bond approved the resumes,” R says, “I’ll check in with 008, unless you need help with 005?”

 

“No, we’re good.  A few hours until go time, but there appear to be no guards.”

 

“Blow something up?” R offers even as he starts to turn away.

 

“Something like that,” Q says, and finally gets in.  “005, can you get inside one of the trucks?”

 

“I like where this is headed,” she says before she starts moving.

 

In the end, everything works out.  005 gets inside the compound after Q cuts the power, and half of the guards rush out of the building, looking in the wrong direction when Q remotely detonates an IEP buried in the ground several miles away.  It ends up being a rather quick mission, and he’s got 005 back to her hotel before dusk has settled over England.  He makes sure that she’s good for the night, lets her know that Keira will be in to lead the skeleton crew tonight should she need anything, and signs off.

 

He finishes off his mug of tea, and sits back, looking out at his branch.  The twins are clearly sulking, though they’re still working.  R is arguing over the merits of a knife fight versus a gun fight in the dark, which means he’s talking to 003.  Q checks the logs to find that 008 is safely in her hotel, going through the provided intel.  He switches over to 009’s mission in Tokyo, and smiles when he hears him describing the night life to Nala, who is hiding her smile with her chin in her hand while she listens to him rattle on.  Though she’s not typing, Q watches her click occasionally between cameras, checking his surroundings, her eyes tracking his movements easily.

 

Ivo, though still looking a little downtrodden, is helping Faruq review the schematics of a building 004 will need to infiltrate in a week.  Everyone is working, and while the twinkling tree is a bit of a distraction, Q would like to think that they would all rise to the occasion if necessary.  Still, it irks him, the way they’ve been acting recently, more like he’s their friend than their boss, which is all well and good when they’re out for a pint, but not something he can tolerate in the branch.

 

Q scrubs a hand over his face, dislodging his glasses.  He sighs, fixes them, and opens up a group message to R and Nala.

 

_Can 008 and 009 fare on their own for a moment?_

Q watches R read it, and start backing out of his conversation with 003 even as he replies, _Currently stationary, so yes._

_Give us a moment_ , Nala types back.

 

Q waits, watching the room.  R signs off with 003 before he gets up to make coffee.  Faruq excitedly points to something, and Ivo nods enthusiastically, scribbling something in the margins.  After a few more seconds, Nala looks up and nods.  Q reaches for his laptop, dashes off a few quick lines of code, and remotely freezes everyone out of the network.

 

Immediately, Roland’s shoulders creep up toward his ears.

 

“Alright,” Q says as he stands up.

 

Every set of eyes swivel to face him, and, to their credit, they look a little nervous.  He comes around to stand in front of his desk, leaning back against it.  Frowning, Q folds his arms across his chest and lets them stew for a moment in silence.  No one moves.

 

“I know that everyone jokingly calls you minions, and I think I was called the overlord of all things dark and dangerous today?”  R nods.  “I know that wit and sarcasm is the only way to get through to a lot of our agents, and that the environment created because of that is fairly lax around here.  I’m not saying that anyone’s work has been lacking, or that I’ve been disappointed with a single thing that’s been brought to me in the past few months.  However, your behavior is out of line.  This—” he indicates the tree behind him, “—is fine.  While I would have appreciated a heads up, I never would have said no.  The snow—” he carefully doesn’t look at either of the twins, “—was crossing a line.  It’s just snow, yes.  But we work in a sometimes hostile environment.  Yes, most of the explosions happen in the lab, but Arjuna’s desk was on fire not one month ago.  Even worse, sometimes we are the very tipping point of an agent’s life.  I know I haven’t forgotten, but it seems like Alec Trevelyan’s death has slipped your minds.”

 

A few people look down at their fidgeting hands, but Q doesn’t stop.  “We have eleven double oh’s to maintain.  Eleven.  Not only is that more agents than this branch has ever housed, but every single one of you is new.  There is not a single employee left from the last quartermaster.  So really, your disregard for professionalism lately is a reflection on me, and I’m not too pleased about that.”

 

Q glances toward the doors as he sees Eve coming down the hall, and catches her eye.  She nods, and stops just outside the branch, pretending to be busy on her tablet.  She likely has work to do, but he knows that she’ll try eavesdropping anyway.  He looks back to his branch, all of whom are watching him again.  “I don’t want to be your overlord,” he says.  A few of them smile, though they try to hide it.  “I’m not some chair-spinning, cat-hoarding supervillain mastermind.”

 

“Well,” R says, “You did get another cat.”

 

“What’s that, three now?” Julian teases.

 

“All named after dead, white men,” Nala points out.

 

“And Joyce is Irish, so that’s even worse,” Roland says.  He looks a little unsure about speaking, but his comment sends up a quiet murmur of laughter.

 

“Cats aside,” Q says, “I need you to work with me, not against me.  Moving forward, all department decorations will require approval.  I’ll be assigning team leads to specific groups.  And the next time you force me to stand in front of you and publically speak, it’s going to be a lot less pleasant, so let’s not let this happen again, yeah?”

 

There’s a steady rumble of apologies and promises, and then Q’s telling them to return to work as Eve comes clicking in.  “Darling,” she says as she approaches.

 

“Moneypenny,” he says, stepping back up behind his desk again, “That better not be paperwork to sign.”

 

“The board needs your official approval for the annual budget,” she says, setting down a bound set of papers.  He lifts the title page, scowls at the table of contents, and starts typing again.  “They said they refused to revise it again, so do try to be a little flexible.”  Q makes a soft noise of derision.  Eve smiles as she holds up another bound stack.  “Project proposals, organized by acceptance and denial.  Get over it,” she adds when he rolls his eyes, “Accounting is going to have your head one of these days.”

 

“A bit medieval,” he mutters.

 

“And these,” she says, and sets down a truly monstrous stack of loose papers, “are not sorted, but required.”

 

“Remind me why you’re handing me papers instead of asking me to sign digitally?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow at his monitor.

 

“Don’t be a brat,” she says, “You and I both know that none of these reports are ever going to be done digitally unless _you_ or someone in _your_ branch sets them up that way, which I know is ridiculous, but here we are.  Are you free tonight?”

 

“Depends,” Q says, glancing at her, “What did you have in mind?”

 

“I want another tattoo.”

 

Q blinks away from his monitor and to her, smiling.  “As long as my agents behave themselves, I can be free.  I’ll email Oliver to let him know we’re popping over.  R,” he adds as R steps up to his desk with a tablet in hand.

 

“Yes, what, I didn’t do it,” R says.

 

“That sounds like a guilty conscience,” Eve says, leaning her hip against Q’s desk as she grins at him.

 

“When you grow up with sisters, everything is generally your fault,” R says, smiling ruefully at her before turning his attention to Q, “Yes, sir?”

 

Q shakes his head imperceptibly, just barely managing to withhold another eye roll.  “How’s your evening look?” he asks.

 

R glances at Eve, and then back at Q.  “Um,” he says.

 

“Oh, yes,” Eve says delightedly, “We should all get matching ones.”

 

“Never,” Q says, “I’m still baffled by the fact that you convinced me to get the other ones, never mind a matching one.”

 

“Matching ones?” R repeats, frowning for a second before he continues, “Oh, yes!  I can be free for that.  Is there food involved?”

 

“Sushi,” Eve says.  Q beams.  “Yes, I know, bask in my wonderfulness,” she says, “It’s—oh.”  Eve pushes away from her desk, and folds her arms across her chest.  “You should—invite James.  Yes,” she adds, nodding to herself, “I like this idea already.  I’m inviting Sam.  We’re making it a thing.  R, tell me you have a girlfriend.  Or a boyfriend.  Or a _friend_.”

 

“Um,” R says, throwing Q a terrified glance before smiling at Eve, “I do.”

 

Eve waves a hand at him, though her gaze is sweeping over the branch.  “I’m inviting Nala, too.  Who is she dating again?”

 

“Arjuna,” Q says, resigned.

 

“Mhm,” Eve hums to herself, “Date night.  Sign those, or I’m taking one of your minions as a hostage.”

 

Eve leaves them, heading straight for Nala.  R watches them go, and Q frowns at how tightly wound he is.  “Go ahead,” he says, “Tell her you’re opting out.”

 

“Not on my life,” R says.  He still doesn’t turn to face Q, instead watching as Nala brightens, nodding quickly.

 

“R,” Q says, a little firmer than he means to.

 

“Okay, okay, I’m just going to—come out with it,” he says all in a rush as he spins to face Q, “which is kind of poetic and punny, really, and you’ll get it in a second, but you might also be a little miffed about it—the punny part, not the other part.  But we’re friends, right?  Yeah,” R answers himself as Q’s eyes go a little wide.  “And friends tell each other things, and they’re just—you know, _upfront_ about this kind of stuff.  And I’m just gonna—plow right through, you know, just—don’t kill me, okay?  And if you’re having murderous tendencies, then I’ll definitely just cross my heart and hope to die, and go tell Eve that I’m opting out.  But, you know, she might understand, actually, because my friend is Aidan.”

 

Q doesn’t hear it at first.  He’s too busy trying to digest R’s rambling, but then the name cuts through the rest of the babbling, and he blinks, once, looks away from R to stare blankly at his laptop for a full two seconds, and then quickly back up to R.  “I’m sorry, what?” he says.

 

“Aidan,” R says, and swallows.  “Yup.  So here we are.”

 

“Your friend is Aidan,” Q repeats.  He’s not dense, he understands what R is saying, but, for some reason, it’s not really computing correctly.

 

“Friend as in boy.  A boy that’s a—friend,” R says lamely, “That I also happen to sleep with on occasion.  So boy—friend.  It just kind of happened, okay.”

 

Q’s brain starts to backtrack, and he says, “Wait, I am miffed about this.  You were giving very clear signals that night.”

 

“The night you tried to get into my pants?” R says.  He ignores Q’s incredulous look, and plows on, “Because yeah, I was giving a lot of clear signals.  I remember thinking, hey Dante, clear signals all around.  Let him know that you are into girls.  And then, well.  I guess I hadn’t finished teenaging yet?”

 

“That’s—not a word,” Q says, “Or a verb.  What?”

 

“So the problem is,” R says, starting to talk quickly again, “that I really thought I liked girls, and I still do, mind you, but that night, the one in question, got me thinking a little.  Because here I am, hey Dante, clear signals all around, but you know, open mind open heart or whatever, and I started thinking, well, Q’s a nice guy, and I’m not going to say you’re not attractive just because I like girls—women, whatever, see, not done teenaging yet—and let me tell you, working for the government, I definitely thought this place was going to be _way_ conservative, but hell, man, half the double oh’s are bi, either by trade or just by, I don’t know, truth, and Q branch, in particular, is hella inviting.  I mean, Q.  _Q_.  Diversity abounds.  But hear me out—”

 

“Are you arriving at a point in the near future?” Q asks, not unkindly because his brain has caught up now, and he knows what R’s getting at, but also suspects this has been a thing he hasn’t said aloud for at least a couple years now.

 

“Well, it got me thinking that maybe I was wrong about me, so I did some research.  By which I mean, I went on dates.  With men.  For science.  And hey, what do you know, they’re not all that bad.  I’m still leaning pretty heavy to the women side, but Aidan is—he’s my friend, Q, and he always has been, and I know it’s not your fault, but he was really torn up about you guys, and we just, kind of—started hanging out more after that, and things just—happened.”  R lets out a heavy breath, his shoulders relaxing a little.

 

“And he’s not—upset with you for not being able to tell him about your work?” Q asks because he knows how that works, and he doesn’t want to watch R go through it.

 

R shrugs.  “He knew me long before I started working here.  Plus, I’m not you.  There are some things I can talk about.  Sure, he doesn’t know I work for MI-6, but I also don’t handle the kind of missions you do, so it’s easier.  I just—wanted you to know.  I mean, it’s not like it’s been going on that long—not even a year or anything—but I didn’t want to just show up with him, and have you feeling like a fish out of water.”

 

“R,” Q says, trying for a smile.  He almost makes it, but the thought of seeing Aidan, with all of the bad blood between them, makes him cringe a little.  “I am perfectly capable of being civil.”

 

R snorts disbelievingly.  “Uh huh,” he says, “And so can Aidan.  I’m just—I’ll tell Eve I can’t.”

 

“No one’s stopping you.  If Aidan’s up for it, then he’s welcome.  We’re not going to _not_ invite you to things just because your boyfriend is my ex.  Because yes, we are friends.”

 

“Friends,” R repeats, “Okay.  Sure.  I’ll ask him.  But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

“Cross my heart, and hope to die,” Q echoes her earlier sentiment.  R salutes him, and heads off to his desk.

 

“Q,” Nala says from across the room, “009 is on the line.”

 

Grateful not to have to think about this right now, Q nods and plunges himself back into work.

 

——

 

Q receives no less than six texts from Eve before the end of the day.  The first— _Jesus H Christ.  If you want, I can put a stop on all of this._ —sparks a conversation confirming that no, he’d really rather not see Aidan ever again given the opportunity, but yes, he still wants to go out, and is going to be fine because he’s not a delicate fucking flower, thank you very much.

 

The second— _Let’s do tattoos another time.  I feel like that may be pushing it tonight._ —Q only glances at before going back to work.

 

The other four all pertain to the plans for later, and he doesn’t look at them until he’s finally calling it quits.  He scans them quickly, absorbs only the pertinent information, and takes his favorite earbud with him as he loops a scarf around his neck.

 

“Don’t even tell me that’s a Hufflepuff scarf,” R says as he pulls on his jacket.

 

Nala looks up, bewildered, and says, “No way.  There’s _no way_ you were sorted into Hufflepuff.”

 

“There is nothing wrong with Hufflepuff,” Q says defensively as he shoves his laptop into his bag.

 

“You’re right, there isn’t,” Nala says, “And you should remind R of that.  But _you_ are not a Hufflepuff.  Ravenclaw, definitely.”

 

“Hufflepuff’s are boring,” R says with enough force that Q suspects he’s upset with his house, “And also, Q is 100% a Slytherin.”

 

Nala hums, regarding him as she pauses in powering down her station.  “I could see that maybe,” she says finally.

 

“It’s a definite thing,” R says, “You’re sketchy as fuck.”

 

“I’m taking offense to that,” Q says.  He shrugs on his parka, loops his messenger bag over his head, and pats around his pockets and desk until he finds his phone.  “But yes, I am a Slytherin.”

 

“Sketchy,” Nala repeats, shaking her head, “Q wouldn’t harm a fly.  _Well_.”

 

“My point exactly,” R says.  “Wait.  What are you?”

 

“Ravenclaw,” Q and Nala say at the same time.

 

She flashes him a wide smile, and finally starts getting ready to leave.  Though it’s winter now, she’s in a bright, bubblegum pink dress that flares out whenever she moves, little teal flats, and her plum dreadlocks twirled into a neat bun.  Arjuna, looking a little nervous about this whole affair, looks washed out next to her in his tight black pants and grey sweater.  He has a little bit of color in the crimson button-up tucked beneath his sweater, and Q wonders if that color was Nala’s idea.

 

He’d been in a rush this morning, and while that normally meant that his clothes matched hideously, James had just gotten in from a run, and sneakily started throwing clothes at him.  As a result, he actually looks fairly put together, which is a win considering they’re all going out now.  And though it’s winter, James had handed him a pair of trousers he normally reserved for the spring or summer, medium tan and tight.  He’d also paired it with a pale blue button-up beneath a navy cardigan, and really, he feels like he’s about to step off a yacht at any moment.

 

“I see you’re pairing that Hufflepuff no nonsense nicely with House Tyrell,” Q says, indicating R’s scarf as he pauses by his desk.

 

“Don’t even get me started,” R says, grabbing his bag.

 

“Oh no, let’s,” Nala says, “My favorite are the Martell’s.”

 

“No one is surprised by that,” Arjuna says, “A little clarification perhaps, though.  The Sand Snakes, too, or just the actual Martell’s?”

 

“Everyone,” Nala says, “But, admittedly, the Sand Snakes more than anyone else.  They’re fierce women.  I’m guessing you like the Stark’s.”

 

“They’re very reasonable people,” Arjuna defends.

  
Everyone laughs at him on the way out.

 

“The Tyrell’s are clever about their bloodthirst,” R says as they leave the branch, lingering by the doors as Q checks in with a few different people.

 

When he catches up with them, he says, “You just like Margaery.”

 

“Duh,” R and Arjuna both say.

 

“Who do you like?” Nala asks as they head down the hall, making for the lift.

 

“Wait,” R says, “Let me guess.”  He glances at Q, eyes narrowed, and says, “House Bolton?”

 

“Specifically,” Arjuna says, “The bastard.”

 

“Ramsay,” Q says, “And yes.  But also the Baratheon’s.”

 

“Does Bond have a favorite?” Nala asks, “Because one, I still can’t imagine him watching TV, and two, I have absolutely no idea which way he might lean.”

 

“Oh yeah, I’ve got nothing,” R agrees.

 

The lift doors open, and they all pile in.  Only when the doors have closed, and they’ve started ascending does Q say, “House Greyjoy.”  The lift erupts with noise, and Q just nods along sadly.  “I know,” he says, “It’s a tragedy.”

 

Up on the main floor, Eve is just coming down the stairs, and they wait by the front door for her.  They’ve switched to their preferred Middle Earth race, and are busy arguing whether elves are better than wizards when not just Eve, but Eve and 005 stop before them.

 

“Yes, but—” Reese interrupts easily, “—Lorien or Mirkwood elves?”

 

R and Arjuna blink stupidly at her.  “Fair point,” Q says, “Mirkwood elves are better than wizards.  Lorien ones, not so much.”

 

“Wait, yes,” R says, regaining his composure.

 

“Well, if we’re separating elves, then you have to consider the different types of dwarves,” Nala says.

 

“That’s a no brainer,” Reese says, “The line of Durin is the best.”

 

“Prove it,” R challenges.

 

“Richard Armitage.”

 

They concede, muttering about how beautiful he is as Eve watches them all, shaking her head.  “This is terrible,” she says, “Come along, hobbits, we’ve dinner to catch.”

 

“Are you coming?” Q asks Reese as they start filing out.

 

“If that’s okay,” she says, “My fiancé, as well.”

 

“Oh, excellent,” Q says, smiling, “I can’t wait to meet her.”

 

They go down into the garage where they carpool—Q, R, and Reese with Eve, Nala and Arjuna following them.  Q, in the passenger seat, lets R and Reese’s conversation about hobbits versus kender drift into nothing more than sound as he fishes out his phone, calls James, and waits for him to pick up before he pockets it again.

 

“One day, we’ll look back on this night, and laugh,” James says by way of answer.

 

“Because it’s a terrible idea?” Q murmurs, leaning his temple against the window.  He ignores Eve throwing a smile his way as she answers a call from Sam.  Her voice adds to the noise, making it a symphony of different pitches and notes.

 

“The very worst,” James says, “I heard Reese was tagging along, as well.”

 

“I like her, so behave.”

 

“I’ve no problem with Reese.  However, I don’t believe she knows.”

 

“About us?  No, I don’t think so, either.  It tends to be a topic of conversation that I avoid.”

 

“Reasonably so,” James says, “Since you’re forcing me to—”

 

“Let’s not even pretend that anyone is capable of forcing you to do anything,” Q cuts across him.

 

He can feel James’s smile through the phone, and he hides his own against the window as he shifts to press his cheek there.  He’ll never say it aloud, but he’s going to miss this—miss _him_ —like a lost limb when he goes back into the field.

 

“Fine, then,” James says smoothly, “Since you’ve convinced me to have dinner with your ex, among other people, I’d like to officially set the terms for my reward.”

 

“A reward?” Q repeats, his smile morphing into a grin.  Beside him, Eve hangs up with Sam.  He looks up to find that they’re only a few streets away from the restaurant.

 

“Reward systems have worked in the past,” James says.

 

“I have never received a fully intact Walther, so I beg to differ.”

 

“Greece?”

 

“It had teeth marks on it.  _Teeth marks_.  I’m still waiting on an explanation for that one.”

 

“Tried to feed it to a shark.”

 

“Ha,” Q barks an empty laugh.  “Just because—oh, fuck _you_.”

 

“That’s the idea,” James says.

 

Eve parallel parks as Q lifts his head, narrowing his eyes.  James is leaning casually against his handsome car, hands in his jacket pockets.  He’s in dark grey slacks that wrap around his thighs and show off the curve of his behind nicely.  Q can see the collar of a black sweater beneath his jacket, one he knows follows the line of his shoulders and shows off the barest hint of collarbone at certain angles, one that he’s torn from his body before biting marks across those shoulders.

 

James leaves him with one last parting remark before he hangs up, “On your knees tonight, taking what belongs to you.”

 

“Sadist,” Q grumbles after the call drops.

 

“Sam’s just around the corner,” Eve says as they get out, “And that looks like—Izzy, yes?”

 

“Indeed,” Reese says, lifting a hand in a wave as a short redhead makes her way down the street to them.  James has disappeared, though Q spots him through one of the restaurant windows, flirting shamelessly with the hostess.

 

“Eve!” Nala exclaims as she and Arjuna join them, “I’ve always wanted to try this place.  Have you?”

 

“It’s amazing,” Eve says, “Q and I tried it a few months ago, right after it opened.  Is this everyone, then?”

 

“Are you counting heads?” Q teases.

 

“Shut up,” Eve says, smacking him.  “R?  Aidan?”

 

“Pulling up now,” R says, looking at his phone, “Where’s, uh—”

 

“Inside,” Q says, “Getting us a table, hopefully.”

 

“Ooh,” Reese says, jostling him, “Are we finally going to meet the cause of those secretive little smiles, Q, darling?”

 

“What?” Q says, “I don’t—”

 

“Yes, you do,” R, Nala, and Eve all say.

 

“Traitors,” Q mutters, and then can’t quite manage to say anything.  Aidan has just reached them, and he exchanges smiles with R.  He’s everything Q remembers falling for—dark curls and darker eyes, a teasing mouth and sharp jaw.

 

“Alright,” Eve says, clapping her hands together, “No awkward ice breakers.  Mass introductions.  Eve, obviously, and this is Sam.”

 

“In the flesh,” Sam says, lifting a hand in greeting.

 

He’ll deny it if anyone calls him out on it, but warmth crawls over Q with such suddenness that he stands a little taller.  His shoulders slope down away from his ears, and this barely there smile quirks at the corners of his mouth.  The knots in his spine shiver away as a hand drifts across his back, hot even through his layers.

 

Distantly, he can hear Eve saying that Nala and Arjuna work for him, which segue ways into R introducing Aidan, but Q’s distracted by the mouth that appears at his ear, a soft exhale that whispers heat straight into his synapses.  James doesn’t say anything, just drags his lower lip along the shell of Q’s ear before he steps up beside him.  He expects fire, but then James’s hand circles away from his back to tap lightly against his hand.  Q leans the back of his shoulder against the front of James’s, and twines their hands together behind his back.

 

“Hi,” James murmurs, pressing a light, fluttering kiss against Q’s temple.

 

“Hello,” Q says, his voice pitched low and uneven.

 

James hums, and moves away from him, delivering a smile full of charm and mystery when Eve turns to them.  “Q and James.  Did you get us a table?”  James nods once.  His thumb sweeps out over the back of Q’s hand.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Reese says very softly.

 

“And Reese and Izzy,” Eve finishes, “Excellent.  Everyone knows everyone, then?  I’m starved.”

 

“Famished,” Q agrees.

 

“Ravenous,” R says as he takes Aidan’s hand, starting to steer them toward the restaurant.

 

“Shut up, both of you,” Eve says, and stalks past them.  Sam is grinning as he follows her.

 

Q starts to follow when James squeezes his hand.  “A moment of your time?” James asks.

 

Q looks back at him, sees something there that makes his breaths trip over one another, and says, “We’ll be right in.”  James releases his hand, stepping away so Q has room to turn and face him.  When everyone’s inside, Q lifts his eyebrows in question.

 

“Two things.  Good or bad?” James asks.

  
“Bad,” Q says, remaining impassive.

 

“M’s got a mission for me.”

 

Q lets out a breath.  “When?” he asks.

 

“Tomorrow morning,” James says.  He doesn’t reach for him, though Q sees his fingers twitch at his side.  “He’s already sent you the file.”

 

“How long?”

 

“I’ll miss Christmas brunch,” James says, “But no longer than a few weeks.  Q.”

 

“I know,” Q says, and then amends, “I knew.  I knew this was coming.”

 

A muscle in his jaw moves before James gives into his urge, and steps close, one hand coming up to fit around Q’s jaw, thumb sweeping up over his cheekbone.  His other hand finds Q’s, twists their fingers together.  He lifts their hands and sets them between them, pressing against their sternums.  “I’m coming back to you,” he says.  Q opens his mouth to say that he knows, he knows that he’ll try, and he knows that it’s not his fault if he can’t, and he knows that it’s going to hurt, but he knows this, so it’ll be okay.  Instead, James kisses him.

 

It’s a kiss that leaves no room for argument, that pulls Q out of thoughts of what might happen and where they could be in a few weeks’ time, and drags him back to the present, to James’s mouth against his own, spilling warmth into his cold bones and asking for nothing in return.

 

Regardless, Q gives him everything he has—his heart, his mind, his body, his very soul.  He kisses him with nearly eleven months missing him, and holds on like James is his life raft in a wild ocean trying to drag him under the current when James whispers, “Experimentally, silently, I mouth—” his lips drag over Q’s, form the words they won’t say, the words that are not enough, the words that will mean the end if they enter this space trapped between them.  James lets out a ragged exhale, and lifts his head enough to press their foreheads together, to close his eyes and center his universe on this one moment.

 

Q draws his free hand through his hair, curls around the nape of his neck, and finishes the quote for him, “No one hears, no one sees, but the tree falls in the forest just the same.”

 

James smiles, hums, and lifts his head again to press a last kiss to the spot between Q’s brows before he releases him, steps back, and says, “If that’s that, then.”

 

Q is full to the brim with something he will not name when he shakes his head, smiling like an idiot.  “How unlucky I am,” he says.

 

In the end, somehow, the night isn’t wretched.  None of them talk about work, though they do discuss the tattoos they want to get.  Q doesn’t exchange a single word with Aidan, though he feels his eyes on him once or twice.  R looks happy, though, so Q remains civil.  Mostly, though, he’s distracted by the firm line of James’s shoulder, and the bit of collarbone that shows when he stretches an arm along the back of Q’s chair.  He lets himself be swallowed whole by the pale, stormy blue of his eyes, and gets hopelessly lost in the sensation of James’s knuckles brushing across the nape of his neck.

 

Later, when they’re loose with drink and laughing at the night, after they’ve engaged in a lengthy goodbye with everyone, Q tucks up in the passenger seat of James’s car, and they talk about nothing.  Instead, they talk about the stars and the good food and the book Q is reading.  And after, with James’s hot mouth scattering want across the back of Q’s neck as he stumbles in opening the door, with his hands pressing hard around the curve of James’s ribs, shucking his sweater up so he can feel his breaths with his bare hands, with James’s teeth on his shoulder and Q’s thumbs digging bruises into his thighs—the sound of their coming together carries them through the darkness.

 

——

 

James spends three weeks in Italy.  Q sends him off with a brand new Walther, a threat to send him out with glow sticks next mission if he doesn’t bring it back, a radio, a new watch, and a handsome pair of sunglasses that will let him see everything that James does.

 

On the flight over, he’s busy helping 008 navigate around a swamp, but tears his eyes off the several maps spread in front of him to smile at a picture of the sky outside James’s plane window.

 

“Winter in paradise,” he says when Q checks in with him that night, “Wish you were here.”

 

Q wrinkles his nose, tells James he’s going soft, and doesn’t tell him that he’s booked an open ticket that he’s going to use if the mission doesn’t go sideways.

 

Christmas comes and goes.  He spends it with his brothers and their children, even sleeps over Desmond’s the night before.  They have a lazy, slow day that MI-6 doesn’t interrupt, though Q is more than happy to return to work after a few days off in a row.

 

“Nope, wrong twin,” he says one morning as R is dropping a mug of tea and a stack of papers on his desk.

 

“Interviews start in three hours,” R reminds him, “And those need to be signed before noon.”

 

“She is not the wrong twin,” James says as he watches a woman stoop to pick up a seashell.  “Have you really not digitized those yet?”

 

“Fantastic idea,” Q says, “R, set up a team to start digitizing all forms that come through the branch.”

 

“Finally,” R sighs, and forgoes his current project to get a head start on building a team.

 

“Wrong twin,” Q insists.

 

The woman stands up, lifting to seashell above her head, and James smirks triumphantly when the small birthmark on her shoulder comes into view.

 

“Bugger,” Q grumbles.

 

The woman turns, sees James, and smiles shyly.  “Off you pop, then,” Q says, not watching as James stands, moving leisurely.  He’s already starting to shift gears, quickly calculating the time difference in Russia before he says, “007, do you require any further assistance?”

 

“You in my bed before the night is old?”

 

“Perhaps if you’ve seduced your mark successfully,” Q says, and doesn’t stay on the line to listen to James’s laugh rumble down his spine.  “002, this is a tragedy, truly,” he says by way of greeting.

 

“It is!” 002 exclaims, “I’m rather upset about the whole thing.”

 

Q frowns at the closed sign he can see from nearby CCTV.  “Hold, please,” he says, searching for another avenue.

 

“The reviews were so promising, too,” Charles continues sadly.

 

Q grins.  “002, it appears they’ve just moved.  I’m sending the address to your mobile now.  It’s about a ten minute walk.”

 

“Ah ha!” he says delightedly, “I am forever in your debt.”

 

“Consider it even if you bring me back one of their candles.”

 

“Done and done, Q, my boy.”

 

Q rolls his eyes, but refrains from commenting on it as he signs off.  “Before noon, Q,” Eve says, appearing quite literally out of thin air.  Q jumps, looking up at her.  She’s holding a pen that’s smoking on one end.  “And I’d like an explanation for this.”

 

“Who the hell!” Q yells, standing up.  Half his branch cowers.

 

After the exploding pen debacle—and a mountain of paperwork that makes his hand cramp, four interviews that land him their two final employees, and Mexican with Eve and Bill—Q is swallowed whole by 004’s mission in Korea.

 

He spends a sleepless three days with her after she’s kidnapped by the same people who killed Alec, and subsequently thrown in a deprivation chamber.  Q does his level best to keep her sane while he and R strong-arm their way into the truly spectacular network that the God of Small Things maintains.  It’s a hack marathon that leaves his wrists aching and ends at hour 65 with an impending migraine and far too much caffeine.

 

He forces R to sleep periodically, either at home or on the sofa, but he refuses to rest until he’s gotten Adrienne safely out of Korea.  Thus, Eve ropes the branch into keeping him alive.  A different minion brings him breakfast each day, Eve shows up with lunch and forces him away from his laptop for thirty full minutes, and M— _M_ —comes down with Eve and salads on the second day.

 

When, finally, he breaks in, it’s over in fourteen minutes.  Q dismantles the deprivation chamber, talks so constantly that Adrienne has no choice but to listen to his voice as he leads her out, and only stops when she’s en route to the airport.  Even then, he keeps talking to her, keeps her grounded, while R starts copying everything he can get his hands on.  Nala switches out his tea for something herbal, Eve sends down a directive that he’s to take two days mandatory leave, and all he can think about is curling up with his cats for an indefinite amount of time.  As soon as 004’s on the plane, he disconnects, gives Nala first position, and forces R to leave with him.

 

At home, he herds Joyce, Keats, and Oscar into his bedroom, throws open the windows, and tucks up under the duvet.

 

“Well, would you look at that,” James says six days later as Q is finishing up his time off request to M.

 

“I’ve swelled three sizes with pride,” Q says dryly.

 

“Come now, the Walther’s in perfect condition, I haven’t even touched the radio, the watch is still ticking, though a bit scratched, and the glasses—”

 

“Are at the bottom of the Atlantic,” Q speaks over him, “And which you will not be getting another pair of until you can prove yourself worthy.”

 

“Three out of four, Q.”

 

“Go play in traffic.”

 

James swerves obediently, and the blare of a horn cuts across their feed.  Q glances at M’s response, swallows a smile, and books his flight.  “You’ve an extra day,” Q says, “I’ve taken the liberty of not sending you anything to do.”

 

“The beach, Q,” James says as he turns off the main road and onto a small, dirt road, “I’m never leaving this beach.”

 

“I hear drowning’s in,” Q says, and stays on the line only for a second longer to listen to James huff exasperation at him before he disconnects and opens up a line with 0010.  “That’s quite a lot of fire,” he says.

 

“It’s magnificent,” she says, “Q, honestly.  This is the best post-mission adventure ever.”

 

Q makes a face.  He hadn’t meant to let this become a habit, finding things for his agents to do if they had downtime, or if they completed the mission ahead of schedule, but Charles is always so exuberant about whatever Q finds that he’d just started sending them off on little adventures.  Now, all of them don’t necessarily expect it, but they always express their vast appreciation when he has time to find a fire dancing festival for them.

 

“Do try not to go down in flames,” Q says.

 

Ebele laughs, clear and bright as a bell.  “Not quite your worst pun, but close,” she says.

 

He checks in with 009 in Brazil, 003 on the border of China, and 0012 en route back to England before he squares off a few last things, gives first to R, and takes his leave.

 

The following morning, as his Uber is making a hasty U-turn, Q stands at the edge of a boardwalk, surrounded by swaying stalks of grass and small dunes.  He can see James in the distance, stretched out on a towel, arms hooked beneath his head, and wearing these godawful shorts that masquerade as swimming shorts.  They fit so snugly, Q would hardly need an imagination, and though he finds them a heinous shade of fuchsia, Q’s body thrums with want as he toes off his flip flops and steps off the boardwalk.

 

He walks slowly, takes his time closing the distance between them.  He thinks James hears him when he gets close, but assumes he’s one of his marks or just a stranger passing by until Q drops a bag next to his head and says, “If I come back tan, everyone’s going to talk.”

 

He’s never seen James startle before, but the shock is evident on his face when he tips his head back and looks up.  He’s also never seen him fumble in his movements, but in his haste to get right side up, he nearly trips on the towel, manages to catch himself, and ends up grinning beautifully when Q laughs at him.  “You’re here,” is all James manages to say before he kisses him.

 

They spend the day at the beach, and Q does tan, not burn, because he’s meticulous about his sunscreen.  James tells him that he looks sinful when they wake up the next morning, his sun-kissed skin unraveling freckles across his nose and making his eyes green like algae.  They move slow that morning, content to just be together, to touch and be touched.  After, they find somewhere for pancakes because Q is having the worst kind of craving, and James laughs openly at the sheer amount of syrup he uses.

 

When he returns to work two days later, no one says anything, but everyone keeps looking away from him.  Nala, the only one of them brave enough, places a dancing hula girl on his desk and asks, “How was Italy?”

 

 _God_ , Q thinks as he rolls his eyes at her, something has to go wrong because this—this is all too good.

 

It happens in the summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is why I split this into four parts instead of three. I know, I'm the worst! Don't worry, part three is another 20k words, and then part four is literally just 12k of fluff. I'm not kidding. There's absolutely no substance to part four.
> 
> As for this one, I hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to leave your thoughts!


	3. pendant, ii

February dawns cold and dark.

 

If it’s not snowing, it’s raining.  Q invests in a pair of boots that he wears to and from the station because he’s sick to death of falling on his ass.

 

0011 gets himself in a fix on a rooftop that Q badly wants to ignore, but it’s his first time back in the field after the suspension M made effective immediately after Nala’s harassment claim was filed, and thus, he spends a grueling forty minutes helping him navigate through France.

 

James gets sent to Portugal for six days, gets shot in his bad shoulder from a close distance, and lets out a swear so vulgar, Q double checks the line is private.

 

He’s forced to sit through twelve minutes of James fighting with a bum shoulder until, finally, he gets a good hold on his mark, and throws him headlong into a piece of rebar sticking out of the wall.  Q grits his teeth at the sound that makes, and then holds his breath when James lets out a hard sound before his knees crack against the cement beneath him.

 

“007, get out of there,” Q says, “The charges you set are rigged to blow in five minutes.”

 

“I’ve got four minutes, then,” James says, though his voice is tight.

 

“007,” Q says firmly.

 

James ignores him, instead dragging himself over to the slumped body to start searching its pockets.

 

Q reaches for his tea, and sips at it as he glares at the timer on his monitor.

 

James gasps softly, and Q’s knuckles go white around his mug.  “007,” he says.

 

“Oh, let’s not,” James mumbles, “Intel secured.”

 

“Less than three minutes,” Q says, “Get up, 007.  You need to leave.”

 

“Less than two years,” James says, “ _Shit_.”

 

There’s a dull thud on the other line.  “007?” Q asks, “Are you okay?”

 

There’s no response.

 

“007,” Q says, his voice trying to strangle itself.

 

Silence reigns.

 

“Bond,” Q says, “Report.  Are you there?”

 

There’s a sound like someone grunting, and then static shrieks in Q’s ear.  “No,” he snaps, fingers firing across his keyboard.  “Bond, come in,” he says.

 

“Communications lost,” R says.

 

“Find me visual,” Q says sharply as he keeps typing.  He pulls himself deep inside his own network, accesses a ghost drive, and keeps James’s smart blood vitals on his own screen.  He’s still alive, but his heart is slower than Q expects.

 

“CCTV footage is down,” R says.

 

“God—fucking damn it,” Q mutters angrily.

 

Two minutes later, the building blows.

 

James does not flat line.  Q keeps looking for him even though R is sending him sad, unsure glances.

 

Three minutes after great, big plumes of smoke fill the sky, his mobile rings.  Q freezes, a line of code staggering to a halt across his screen, and swivels to stare, unbelieving, at his phone.  He snatches it up, his mouth a twisted line of dark humor, and answers it by way of, “You bastard.”

 

“I’m making you— _fuck_.  Breakfast in bed.  Every day.  Pancakes.  Waffles.  Omelets.  Crêpes.  I’m going to invest stock—in the syrup industry.”

 

“You don’t know how to make crêpes,” Q accuses.

 

“I’ll learn.  We’re never vacationing here.  Fuck Portugal.”

 

“I’ve heard it’s nice when you’re not being shot at.  Where are you?”

 

“En route to the hotel.  Stay with me?”  It’s nothing James hasn’t asked before.  Plenty of agents have kept him on the line so they have something to focus on other than the pain.  It’s the way the words fall out of James’s mouth, like he’s asking for more than just this moment.

 

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me,” Q whispers, “We did sign a legally binding contract and all.”

 

Unexpectedly, James laughs.  It breaks in the middle, and he starts coughing, but it’s there nonetheless.  “She would have shot me if she ever found out,” James says, and Q doesn’t have to ask who he’s talking about.

 

An hour later, when M asks for a report, Q lets him know that while 007 has been shot, he’s discovered that vodka works just as well as painkillers.  M sighs, and tells him 45 can’t come soon enough.

 

——

 

Toward the end of the month, Q pulls the security details around his brother’s homes.  He hasn’t been able to find any information on the blurry and nearly indecipherable image he has from that night, no matter what programs he runs it through.  He hasn’t seen anything since that night, either, that leads him to believe that he’s being followed.

 

“It’s been over two months,” Q says when M asks if he’s sure.  “If I was going to be mugged, it would have happened already.  Or worse,” he adds.

 

M very nearly rolls his eyes, and tells him that he’s setting up a swear jar for Harry Potter references.

 

——

 

March is nothing short of the wettest month London has ever experienced.  It seems to rain every day, all day long, with only small reprieves that last for an hour or two.  The lobby of his building very nearly floods one week, and Q works remote for a few days that week.  James is at the end of his medical leave, and though his physical therapy has been going well, the weather has been nightmarish on his shoulder, so Q is happy to spend a few days lounging in bed with him.

 

He spends these days digging into the God of Small Things because all of their agents are on missions that either don’t require his assistance, or are working on home soil.  He cashes in a favor with the CIA, gets clearance to a few files he could hack given a couple days, but would just rather not.  Without warning, the wall across from the bed starts turning into a suspect board.

 

Q figures he should have expected this, but when he walks back in with his morning Earl Grey on his second day home and finds that several pictures have been tacked up with different colored strings connecting some of them, he’s a little confused.

 

“School project?” he asks when James comes out of the bathroom with a towel looped around his waist.

 

At the top, there’s a fuzzy picture with a question mark sharpied over it.  Somewhere—Q knows where, but when he first saw the picture, he immediately looked away and hasn’t looked back at it since—there’s a picture of Alec, and another one of Adrienne.  There’s a map with different pins in it, and a stack of papers on the short bookshelf below it.

 

James doesn’t respond other than to step up next to Q, his damp shoulder settling warmly against Q’s bare one.  He’s wearing a pair of loose flannel pajama pants that show off his hipbones, and James’s eyes drift to them briefly before coming back up to the board.  “We don’t have enough intel yet,” Q says.

 

“And when you do?”

 

Q sips his tea, turns so that he’s facing James, and leans forward to kiss his shoulder.  “I will do everything in my power to send out anyone but you.”

 

“Don’t play favorites,” James says, “It’s unbecoming.”

 

“If I was playing favorites, you’d be out there, and not Adelaide,” Q says.

 

James grins at the board.  “You’re cruel, Q,” he says.

 

“Oh,” Q says, shaking his head, “I was going to say _maybe you should punish me_ , and honestly, I’m ashamed of myself.”

 

James pins Q with his grin, drops his towel, and says, “Maybe I should punish you.”

 

Q lifts his mug to his mouth, arches an eyebrow, and leaves.  “I’m eating cereal unless you make something,” he threatens over his shoulder.

 

“You would die without me,” James says a few minutes later when he’s wearing sweats and rummaging through the fridge.

 

Q scoffs.  “No.  I would just live on cereal, Ramen, and takeaway.”

 

“And whiskey,” James says as he sets eggs down on the counter.

 

“Mm, yes,” Q agrees, “A lot of whiskey.”

 

A week later, James is sent to Poland.  He’s just collecting intel, and it’s really easy enough that a regular field agent could be sent in his stead, but they both think that M’s trying to give him time to recuperate from the gunshot while still avoiding a bored James Bond.

 

In the dead of night on his fourth day, while Q is working late in the lab at home, building because his brain won’t let him sleep, he asks, “Do you have any grey hairs?”

 

“I’m not _that_ old,” James says.  Q hears the shift of sheets, and imagines James with the duvet pulled over his shoulders, his hand stretched to the other side of the bed, pretending they’re just lying across from each other.  “However.”

 

“However?” Q prompts, leaning away from his project.  He sets the soldering iron into its sponge, and lifts his arm to wipe across his forehead.

 

“Two years is a long time.”

 

“How’s your job satisfaction?” Q asks.

 

James sighs slowly.  “Honestly?”

 

“That’s all I ask,” Q says.  He waits, sitting on his workbench, covered in a light sheen of sweat, and listening to James breathe on the other line.

 

“I’m happier when I’m waking up to you,” James says.

 

Q is silent for a moment before he says, “Okay.  What about different work?  The kind you wouldn’t have to travel for?”

 

“Desk work?” James asks, sounding genuinely curious.

 

“No,” Q scoffs, “That would be bad for everyone involved.  What if—I don’t know.  A trainer?”

 

“Hm.”  James doesn’t say any more than that, and after a long while of silence, Q goes back to soldering.  They sit in a companionable quiet for some time.  Q is content just to listen to the shape of James’s breaths, to occasionally glance up and see his steady heartbeat on his laptop.

 

His breaths remain active, though, and so Q isn’t surprised to hear his voice nearly an hour later when he says, “Maybe it’s time.”

 

“Give it a few months,” Q says, “You’ve only been back since November.”

 

“And still spending time away from you.”

 

“God, you’ve gone so soft, you might expire,” Q mutters.

 

James huffs a tired laugh.  “See you in two days?”

 

“I have a surprise for you,” Q says, “No hints.”

 

“Tease.”

 

“Old man.”

 

“Goodnight, Q.”

 

“Goodnight, James.”

 

The surprise, James finds later, is that Q’s finally gone out for that tattoo adventure with Eve and R.  His honeycomb wraps around his back, skims over his hip, and curls around the front of his right thigh.  There’s a bit of circuitry worked through it, most of it fanning up and around Q’s right ribs.  He lays a hot trail of kisses along the still healing area, bites Q’s left hip, and presses them together.

 

——

 

Three hours before James arrives in London after Poland, Q gets home from work to find that an envelope has been left for his pseudo name with no return address at the front desk.  He gives Edward a right scare when he won’t take it, and instead yells at him for touching it as he runs upstairs.  He comes back down with a small kit, waves a dismissive hand at Edward when he asks if it’s anthrax and tells him he’d already be dead by now—which really doesn’t help the situation—and proceeds to check it for any possible threats.

 

When he finds none, Q opens the envelope, and it’s empty.  This is to show him that he’s being watched, then, and that whoever is doing the watching knows where he lives.

 

Q doesn’t tell James, but when he checks the cameras, both in the lobby and any CCTV ones nearby, it’s to find that everything went black at the same time.  Not only that, but all of the clocks in the flat have been reset and are flashing.  Edward confirms that he’s gotten the same complaint from the other tenants.

 

An EMP, then, Q decides, and checks to make sure all of their guns are still hidden.  They’re all accounted for, but he still feels uneasy.

 

——

 

April sends James to Maldives.

 

“83 and thunderstorms,” James says as Q is preparing his equipment.

 

“ _Severe_ thunderstorms,” Q corrects.  He starts putting the Walther back together.  James picks up the new watch he’s being issued—the last one got run over by a tank, and Q refuses to believe every part of that story.

 

“Will there be lightning?” James asks.

 

“And rain,” Q says cheekily.

 

“Brat,” James says.  Q flips the Walther in his hand, and offers it to James.  He tucks it in against his palm, hums when the three little green dots appear, and holsters it.  “Anything else?” he asks.

 

Q reaches for a tablet, flips it open, and turns it to face James.  “Unlock it, please,” he says.  James obediently holds his thumb against the home button until it lights up.  Q taps one of the icons, bringing up James’s mission file.  “Intel’s been downloaded to your new tablet,” he says, “Standard issue for long flights now.  You have a few layovers, unfortunately.  It’ll be about twenty hours in total.”

 

“Jesus,” James mutters.

 

Q taps out of the file, and into another icon.  “I’ve, uh—” he breaks off, giving the tablet a crooked half-smile.  Q clears his throat, and looks up at James, who is watching him with a guarded expression.  “I’ve downloaded a few shows that I thought might pique your interest.  _Peaky Blinders_ is about Birmingham in the 20s.  _The Hour_ is about the BBC in the 50s.  And then there’s _Grace and Frankie_ because you’re 85 in disguise.”  When James doesn’t look convinced, he says, “It’s basically a female version of _Vicious_.”

 

“Sounds promising,” James says truthfully.  “Thank you.”

 

Q shrugs and powers down the tablet, flipping the cover over it again.  He sets that down on his desk, drops a radio on top of it, and then reaches into his bag to take a book out.  “And, if all else fails.”

 

“Careful, the other agents will be jealous.”

 

“The other agents are not my husband,” Q says.  It comes out before he has any idea he’s going to say it, and before he’s ready to say it out loud.  Even so, the reaction is instantaneous.  Q smiles openly as warmth threads its way through his ribs and creeps inside his lungs.  He drops his eyes, grey today, back down to the book, shaking his head once.

 

“ _Damn_.”  James’s voice is wrecked, stripped of all its usual charm and casual indifference.  Instead, he sounds laid bare, his chest torn open so that his beating heart is within reach.  When Q looks up, his smile is a wide, wild thing that Q has never seen, and that he wants to kiss and bite off, swallow it and hold it inside himself forever.  “I never thought,” James says, and though he doesn’t finish whatever he never thought, Q knows.  He’s known for a while now, how much this thing they’ve done really means to James.

 

“What is it?” James asks after a moment.

 

“You’ve only read _Bone Clocks_ ,” Q says, laying a hand over the front cover so that the book is trapped between his hands.  “This is—well—” he sighs, tilts his head to the side, and continues, “this is me, for lack of a better term.”  He lifts his hand, and lets James take the book.

 

“ _Cloud Atlas_ ,” he says, “What’s it about?”

 

“That should be all, 007,” Q says briskly.

 

James nods, and tucks the book beneath the tablet, holding it against him casually.  “No snacks?” he asks.

 

“Get,” Q says softly, and though he’s not looking at him anymore, he’s grinning.

 

James does the same, and turns to leave, greeting 003 with a nod as he passes by him.  Two hours later, he’s on a plane dreading his upcoming twenty hours, but the feeling starts to unravel into something warmer when he opens to the title page of _Cloud Atlas_.  Q’s messy scrawl is looped across the bottom of the page, words bracketed on either side by quotation marks.  James sweeps a thumb over the faded ink as he reads them.

 

_A half-read book is a half-finished love affair._

James starts reading.

 

——

 

James is on hour thirteen of his flight, in the middle of a layover, and arguing about the structure of the book when Q says, “I’m sorry, but could you keep driving, please?”

 

“Keep driving?” the MI-6 issued driver asks uncertainly, “But sir, this is your address.  Right?”

 

“Yes, just—please, thank you.”

 

“What’s wrong?” James asks.

 

Q hunkers down in his seat, trying not to be seen through the window, but the person standing outside his building turns to look right at him as they go by.

 

“Fuck,” he whispers, staying down until they’re almost at the end of the street.  “There’s someone outside.”

 

“Who?”

 

“I don’t know,” Q says as he takes the gun from his bag.

 

“Sir?” the driver asks.

 

“Loop back around, thank you.”

 

“Do you want me to call for backup?”

 

“No, it’s fine.”

 

“Q,” James says, “What are you doing?”

 

“If they’re still there, I’m going to wave my gun at them so that they think I’m useless with it, and then I’m going to shoot them in the knee if they try to approach me.”

 

“And then?” James prompts.

 

“I’ve always wanted to pistol whip someone,” Q says conversationally as they come back down his street.

 

“If you die right now, I’m coming home just to resurrect you and beat some sense into your reckless ass.”

 

“Me,” Q says, “Reckless.  _Sure_.”  He presses his forehead against the window as he tries to see through the dark.  “They’re not there.”

 

They pull up alongside the curb as James says, “Please tell me your driver is—”

 

“He is,” Q says as his driver turns to him.

 

“One moment, sir.  I’m going to clear the area.”

 

Q offers him a weak smile, and waits in the back while he checks the surrounding area.  When it’s clear, he opens the back door, and Q gets out, gun still in his hand.  “Thank you,” he says, and then, as he’s walking to the front door, “Yes, James, he hasn’t gotten back in the car yet.”

 

“Half of those knuckleheads are barely potty trained, never mind the rest.”

 

“Which was why I mentioned being a trainer,” Q says, “I’m inside.  Evening, Edward.”

 

He tucks his hand into his pocket, fingers wrapped comfortably around the gun.  “Good evening, Mister Larson,” Edward says pleasantly.

 

“Quick question.  Was someone just in here asking for me?”

 

“No,” Edward says, “There was just a woman asking for directions, but no one else.”

 

“Directions to where?” Q asks.

 

Edward’s expression lets him know that he’s acting strange.  Q ignores it, and lifts an eyebrow as he waits for an answer.  “Just back into the city proper,” he says.

 

“Thank you,” Q says, and gives him a genuine smile so that he’ll shrug this encounter off later.  Only when Q’s left the lobby and is climbing the stairs does he take his hand from his pocket again.

 

“Do you think it’s the same person?” James asks.

 

“I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not going to get mad at me,” Q says as he crosses the second landing toward the last set of stairs.

 

“They’ve just called my flight,” James says.

 

“Someone left an empty envelope at the front desk last month.  It was for me, and without a return address.  An EMP was set off a few minutes before it happened, and all possible footage was dead.”

 

“God— _damn it_ , Q,” James hisses, “Did you tell anyone?”

 

“No.  I’ll tell M now.”

 

“You need to put the detail back on your brother’s houses.”

 

“It’s just me that they’re targeting.”

 

“They’re?”

 

“Force of habit,” Q says, “But probably a they’re.  I didn’t get a good look at them, and I can bet the CCTV was shit.  _But_.  Yes.  The cameras in the lobby.”

 

Q jogs up the last stairs, rushes through the locks, and barrels into his flat, kicking the door shut behind him as he runs down the hall.  “About to board,” James says.

 

“Hang on,” Q says, “Almost there.”

 

He swings into his office, signs into the desktop there, and logs into his network, firing off a command because it’ll be quicker than going through his files to find his cameras.  Several cameras pop up, and he starts typing.

 

“Q,” James says.

 

“Sir,” someone says in the background, “We’ll have to ask you to put that away for now.”

 

“Nothing,” Q says.  He wants to stare at it blankly for long seconds before he says anything, but James is short on time.  “Absolutely nothing,” Q says, “It’s like—it’s like Edward’s talking to air.”

 

“I’m— _what_?” James asks, and then, “Yes, I know.  Here.”  To Q, he asks, “What do you mean, talking to air?”

 

“Well, he’s talking to _someone_ , but there’s no one there.”

 

“Q, that’s not possible.”  He pauses.  “Is it?” he asks.

 

“It shouldn’t be, no,” Q says, “But—maybe.  I don’t know.  I’d have to research it.  I’ll—look.  Get on your flight.  I’ll work on this.”

 

“Call M.”

 

“It’s late.  I’ll email him.”

 

“Q.”

 

“No one’s getting into this flat.  I’m safest here.”

 

James lets out a frustrated noise.  “Don’t do anything stupid,” he says.

 

“Define stupid,” Q says, though he’s not really paying attention.

 

“Anything I would or wouldn’t do,” James says.

 

“That’s a very small margin,” Q says.

 

“Exactly.  I’ll call you as soon as I can.  _Q_.”

 

Q pulls his attention from the desktop, closes his eyes, and says, “James.”

 

——

 

M assigns two agents to tail him, one hovering around at work and the other at home.  Though he detests being babysat, Q knows that, while he’s safer in MI-6 and his flat than anywhere else, he does still need to travel in between, and this is for the best for now.  He finds absolutely nothing to explain the invisible person Edward is talking to in the video feed, and he’s so aggravated by this that he sends it off to R for a second opinion.

 

They both come up short.

 

A week goes by.

 

0010 and 0012 show up in Q branch precisely three minutes after he’s gotten in, and before he’s even managed to put the kettle on.  M is sending both of them to Chile, and though he thinks this may end disastrously, he outfits them to the best of his ability, even giving each of them a little something extra.  They flash him matching smiles, and promise to bring him back something spectacular.

 

An hour later, 008 calls in to let Q know she’s finished up early, and he quickly checks his schedule to be sure he’s clear for the rest of the day before he says, “Excellent.  Are you back at the hotel?”

 

“Waiting on your go-ahead,” Adelaide says.

 

He sent her out with a new prototype that will bypass both MI-6’s security and whatever technology an agent has retrieved to transfer everything from the foreign technology to Q’s network directly.  He’s still working on something that will just hack for him, though he thinks that’s still a few years out.  For now, he’s exempt from several things—he doesn’t need to open up a pathway into his network, doesn’t need to fight with the foreign technology to let him copy it, and, most importantly, doesn’t need to wait for Adelaide to return to England.  With this prototype, Q just sits back and drinks his tea while he watches everything load.  He still needs to get inside, but this, at least, will skip the first few steps.

 

When it’s finished, he signs off with 008, opens his library of music, and puts a playlist on shuffle before he cracks his knuckles and digs in.

 

——

 

James comes back from Maldives with bruised ribs, an aching knee, a still-bleeding gash across his temple, and a dislocated thumb around mid-May.  He’s grouchy and wants to drink himself to sleep for the first time in a while.  Q is tied up at MI-6 with the twins in Chile, though, so he forces his legs to carry him down to the gym, showers there, and then goes back up to the branch to crash on the sofa.  More than a few minions look equal parts terrified and bewildered when he does this, but Q doesn’t spare him a second glance.

 

“Well,” Q is saying as he shifts onto his side, eyes heavy, “that particular genus of spider happens to be poisonous, so I would recommend walking away respectfully.”

 

He doesn’t really sleep.  He gets a half hour here and there, once two straight hours, but really, James is there because he doesn’t trust himself to be alone right now, and he misses Q.  He’s come to loathe these days and nights away from him, and his earlier musings about retiring before he’s required to are starting to sound better every day.

 

Once, when he comes to, there’s a blanket neatly tucked over his shoulder and a still-steaming mug of tea on the floor.  He eases his sore body upright, taking the tea with him.  It’s herbal, which a younger, angrier Bond might have sneered at, but now, he’s stupidly grateful when the scent of lavender and lemongrass drifts up in lazy curls of steam.

 

Q is not at his desk, nor does he appear to be in the branch, but then the door to his office opens, and James watches a minion walk out before he does.  Neither looks particularly upset, so James figures nothing bad has happened.  Q’s gaze goes right over him, and James thinks he’s going to go back to work when he grabs something from his bag and comes over.

 

“Afternoon,” Q says, dropping onto the sofa next to him.

 

He holds out a book, and James leans their shoulders together.  “ _The Ministry of Utmost Happiness_ ,” he reads the title.

 

“The first Arundhati Roy in twenty years,” Q says, “And.”  James looks over at him when he doesn’t continue, a small smile flitting across his mouth at how utterly pleased Q looks with himself.  “It doesn’t come out until the fifth of June.”

 

“How do you have this, then?” James asks.

 

“ARC,” Q says, “I pulled some strings.  I finished it on my way here.  I called in for Thai for lunch.  How are you feeling?”

 

“When was the last time you slept?” James asks, and though he’s not smiling, he knows how fond and at ease he looks right now.  Q doesn’t answer right away, eyes rolling up and away as he tries to remember.  “You’re coming home tonight,” James says before he can find an answer.

 

Q acquiesces with a nod.  “R’s staging a mutiny if I don’t, regardless.  He says I’ve officially gone off the deep end.”  Q leans to the side, shoulder pressing more solidly against James’s, and tugs something out of his pocket.  “Happy belated—um?”

 

“Cinco de Mayo just passed,” James says, taking the pen from him, “This isn’t—”

 

“It is.”

 

“IE: the deep end.”

 

“Precisely.  Stop circling.  How are you feeling?”  Though he’s a bit manic, the question comes across sincere.

 

James blames that on why he says, “Awful.”

 

“Why are you here, then?” Q asks.

 

James shrugs one shoulder, and doesn’t answer.  Q sighs, a little forlorn, and stays with him a moment longer before he goes back to work.  He pauses forty minutes later to eat Thai on the sofa, legs crossed beneath him, and one of his knees resting on James’s thigh.  When, evidently, he’s pulled away again, he drops a discreet kiss on James’s shoulder before he disappears.

 

James tucks up with the blanket draped over his lap and the book held open in his hands.

 

The day passes this way.  He gets about a quarter way through the book before his body feels so heavy, he’s certain he’ll sink right through the sofa and into the concrete beneath him, spend his last moments gasping for air surrounded by darkness.  Something soft and sweet hums near one of his ears, and James lifts a hand to try to swat it away, but his arms are filled with lead, and he can’t.  He tries to open his mouth to beg for help, but his lungs are filled with sand, his mouth caked over with glue, and he can’t do anything but let out a broken, cracking noise.

 

“James,” someone whispers his name.  A thumb sweeps over one of his eyebrows, and then along his cheekbone.  “You’re still in Q branch.”

 

Somehow, this rockets through everything else, and he opens his eyes wearily.  The book has fallen to the floor, and he’s on his side, a cold sweat dripping across his skin to make his clothes cling to him.  Q is kneeling in front of him, smiling sadly.

 

“Come on, let’s go home,” he says.

 

He doesn’t remember much of what comes next, only bits—his cheek cold against the wall of the lift, a bump in the road that their cabbie apologizes quietly for, a familiar voice bidding them goodnight, and then the soft, unending warmth of his bed.  “Q,” he mumbles blearily.

 

“I’m here,” Q says, and wraps around him.

 

James sleeps like the dead.

 

——

 

June is hot and sticky.

 

Q complains every single day that he has to leave his air conditioned apartment to schlep through the humid streets of London, nearly die in the overcrowded, under-maintained tube, and then back out into hell itself to walk the blistering streets until he arrives at his air conditioned branch.

 

Everyone tells him he’s being obnoxious, and he doesn’t give a damn.

 

He maintains a level of professionalism, though, still coming into work in long sleeves and occasionally a cardigan when the AC is particularly vehement on freezing them all to death.  He wears a few vests that Nala nearly dies laughing over, and then a tie so horrid that even R says something.  James is still on leave, but he’s back at MI-6 and wreaking havoc in true form.

 

He antagonizes 0011 at every turn, coerces 003 into joining him and Bill for drinks a few times, and even agrees to spar with 0012.  He’s an absolute haunt in Q branch to the point where even Q is finding things for him to do.

 

And then, without warning, there’s a small, barely noticeable explosion one Wednesday in one of the underground rooms, and the AC in the building goes out.  They don’t notice until Q abruptly shrugs out of his cardigan in the middle of testing their security, and everyone stops.

 

“Oh shit,” R sighs when he confirms it.

 

“We’re all going to die,” Q says with conviction, and goes back to his tests.

 

Two hours later, four separate people have come down to see if Q branch is responsible for the outage until M finally sends out a memo that he’s having it looked into.  Q has abandoned all pretense of professionalism and rolled up the sleeves of his navy shirt past his elbows.  He gets no less than sixteen gaping stares at his left arm and eight carefully poised questions if he has any other tattoos.

 

He keeps rubbing at the honeycomb there absentmindedly until James comes up from the gym in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt, and he has to force himself to look away.

 

“Goddamn,” Q hears one of the minions whisper reverently as James walks past.

 

“Thing one,” James says as he stops in front of his desk, “Coffee break at the café down the street.  I called already.  It’s a chilly 68 degrees in there.”

 

“And thing two?” Q asks, already shutting down his laptop.

 

“Air conditioning should be fixed in an hour.”

 

They go out for coffee and pastries, taking a little longer than an hour.  When Q gets back, the AC has been fixed, and he gratefully tugs on his cardigan again, tucking up behind his laptop to whittle away the rest of the day.

 

Around 8PM, Q gets an email six minutes before James shows up in the branch, dressed in a smart suit and with a rueful twist to his mouth.  “Berlin,” Q says, tapping away on a tablet, “A week or two at most.”

 

James stops on the other side of his desk, sets his fingers down against the smooth surface, and says, “I’m handing in my resignation after.”

 

Q carefully schools his expression, gaze still fixed on the tablet.  He finishes uploading the Berlin file to it, checks to make sure it’s secure, and sets it down on the desk before he looks up.  “Why’s that?” he asks.

 

“I’m done,” James says.

 

“Okay,” Q says, “I’ll expect crêpes.”

 

James starts to respond, and then stops, smiling instead.  “You’re incorrigible,” he says finally.

 

“Ha!” Q says, “I think you’ve got us mixed up.  Peruse this on your flight over.”  He hands James the tablet before reaching into one of the drawers of his desk for his Walther.  “Perhaps you’ll even bring this back in one piece?”

 

“On my last mission ever?” James says, “Hardly.  I’m going to drop individual pieces down different drainage sites.”

 

Q scowls at him.  “I hope you step on a Lego,” he says.

 

“Q, you wound me.”

 

“Watch out for snakes on your plane.”

 

James leaves the branch laughing.

 

Q checks in with 002 in Canada, of all places, reroutes 009 in a rural part of South America that he seems to have gotten lost in, and spends a good hour keeping 004 out of death’s eager clutches.  When, around 10PM, she finally sprints away from a burning helicopter with only two bullets in her chamber and several dead men scattered in the wreckage, Q stays on until she steals a car, and then leaves her in Keira’s capable hands.  He spends another hour going around his branch, pausing with Faruq to review the project he’s working on, Roland and Rashmi to settle an argument on Apple OS servers, and with their two new recruits to see how they’re getting along.

 

It’s just past 11PM when he finally returns to his desk, does a cursory check on all agents in the field to be sure they’re either in good hands or safely in their hotels before he starts packing up for the night.

 

“See you on Monday?” Keira asks as he stops at her desk.

 

“Call if anything,” he says, “but I’m hoping to be offline for a few hours Sunday morning.”

 

“Have fun with your brothers,” she says, smiling widely, “Goodnight, Q.”

 

He bids her goodnight, scans the branch one last time, and takes his leave.  The ride home is uneventful.  It’s cool out under the stars, so he takes his time walking to the station, occasionally pausing to tip his head back and find the moon.  He reads on the tube, dog-earing his page when he reaches his stop.  Q climbs the stairs leading up away from the underground, gets two feet on solid ground, and stops, his exhale trapped in his throat.

 

There’s a person standing across the street from him, a hood drawn up over their head, but the bone mask over their face is clear as day under the streetlamp.  Q moves quickly, hand fumbling for his bag.  He doesn’t know what he’s reaching for—his gun to attack or his phone for help—but cold fingers wrap around his wrist and neatly snap it to the side.

 

Q bites down on his tongue when he shouts, and blood explodes across his mouth.  “Fuck,” he gasps, staggering forward even as he tries to turn.  He nearly trips over his feet, nearly goes down, but another set of his hands catch him, hold tight to his shoulders.

 

He doesn’t even know where they’re coming from.

 

Another bone-masked person stands in front of him, shoulders relaxed, hands loose.  His wrist is throbbing, but when Q tries to lift his arm to hold it against his chest, the hands on his shoulders slide down to his upper arms and pin them in place.

 

“You’ve been snooping where you shouldn’t be,” the person holding him says as the one in front of him starts to advance.  The voice is distinctly female, and Q tries to place if he’s heard it before, but the only thing his panicking brain can think of is that they are the God of Small Things, and he could be dead in a matter of seconds.

 

“I’ll stop,” he says without any intention of carrying through on that promise, “Please.  I’ll stop.  I won’t—”

 

“Don’t lie, Q,” the one in front of him says, also a woman.  Her mask doesn’t move, but Q can hear the smile in her voice as she continues, “It’s a rather ugly color on you, and you’re not nearly as good at it as your husband is.”

 

Ice drips through his veins.  Q swallows his panic down, and rearranges his expression into one of cool indifference.  “Husband?” he echoes.

 

“Q,” the woman in front of him sighs, “Really, you’re quite terrible at this lying business.  Espionage hardly seems a right fit for you.”

 

“Espionage?” Q tries to let his voice sound incredulous, “I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

 

A new voice speaks, “I don’t think he understands, sister.”  Another woman—Q assumes she’s the one from across the street.

 

The one in front of him hums thoughtfully.  “Well,” she says, “Perhaps a little persuasion.”  To his surprise, she takes a phone from inside her jacket, unlocks it, and thumbs slowly through it, as though she has all the time in the world.  Q considers screaming, but decides he’d rather not die brutally just because he tried to escape, and so waits until she finally smiles, settling on something.  She looks back up at him.  “Perhaps, _Rowan_ , this will convince you how serious we were when we told MI-6 that we would not show mercy next time.”

 

Before he has time to react to the fact that she knows his name, she turns the phone and shows him a picture.  It was taken through a window, _Desmond’s_ kitchen window, and it’s him and Shae’s wife, Kelli, on Christmas morning.  He remembers this moment as though it were yesterday, the kids yelling about food and presents in the living room while Desmond and Connor tried to keep them occupied, their wives setting the table and harassing Shae whenever he put out something wrong, and the two of them laughing as they made mimosas.

 

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, and a long, cold needle rips through the skin on his neck and plunges him into darkness.

 

——

 

James is entertaining himself by people watching, observing the different personalities around him as men and women alike stuff their carry-ons overhead, bump into each other and spew apologies, and reassure children that everything will be just fine.  The seat next to him is empty, and he hopes, for a brief moment, that whoever ends up next to him doesn’t try to talk his ear off like the young, nervous man on his flight home from Maldives did.

 

Most of the passengers have settled when a handsome man, likely in his thirties, drops into the seat next to James, offers him a passive smile, and starts texting.  James looks him over, deems him harmless, and turns his gaze to the window beside him.

 

He tries not to think, _this is it_ , but the words still surface, and he doesn’t bother fighting a smile no one will see.  This is it.  After this, his life is his own.

 

His mobile buzzes against his chest.  James reaches in, eyebrows knitting together when he sees Eve’s name.  “Bond,” he says by way of answer.

 

“Get off the plane,” Eve says.  She sounds like she’s running, her breaths coming fast and sharp.  If he pays attention, he can hear the hard thud of her feet on uneven cement and wind whipping past her.

 

“Where are you?” he asks.

 

“Get off the bloody plane, Bond.  M!  Anything?”

 

“Both of his details are dead,” M’s voice filters through.  James’s world starts to tip off its axis.  “They found his bag and his jacket outside his flat.  Is that Bond?”

 

“Where is he?” James demands, not moving.

 

“Gone,” Eve says, the word rushing out like smoke through his lungs, “Get off the plane.  You’re not going to Berlin.”

 

James hangs up, shoves the phone back in his jacket, and stands up.  “Sir,” a passing attendant says, “We’ll be taking flight very soon.  If you’ll please take your seat, that would be much—”

 

James steps right around his neighbor, who mutters under his breath at him as he tries to twist to the side, out of his way.  “I need to get off,” James says, keeping his voice even.

 

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir,” she says pleasantly, “We’re cleared for liftoff, and—”

 

Her words are lost in a shriek.  She stumbles back a step, hand clapping over her mouth.  “Hey!” someone yells.

 

James’s aim does not shift, and the gun remains steady in his hand.  “I’m not going to ask again,” he says.

  
Several people stand up, all ready to play hero, when there’s an uproar of noise from outside the plane.  James looks over, aim still true, and narrows his eyes when the pilot comes out from behind a sliding door.  He looks on the verge of speaking when he notices the gun pointing at his terrified stewardess, and careens to a halt, his expression hard and furious.

 

“Did I stutter?” James says, turning his gaze back on the stewardess.

 

“Please,” she gasps.

 

“Bond.”

 

003 steps out from behind the pilot.  At once, James steps away from the stewardess, holstering his gun as he strides toward the front of the plane.  “What do we know?” he asks.

 

“God of Small Things,” 003 says, nudging the pilot aside.  “Come on, mate, budge up.”

 

“When?” James asks.

 

“He’s been gone for an hour at most.  M’s calling in every available agent.”

 

“They killed Trevelyan.  If they know who he is, they’ll kill him without hesitation.”

 

“That’s what M’s afraid of.  Let’s go.”

 

Only one other person tries to stop them, and while James is one step away from reaching for his gun again, Luis flashes a badge, and they’re through.

 

——

 

Q doesn’t quite wake up.  He comes to enough to feel the rumbling, cold floor beneath him, something warm and painful digging at his shoulder, and the indistinct murmur of voices.  He tries to rouse himself further, tries to drag himself up out of the haze of whatever drugs they’ve put him under with, but he feels so heavy, like he’s trapped in thick, wet concrete.

 

“The wrist, really?” he hears.

 

Q emits a low groan, and tries to focus.  His hands are free, miraculously, but he can’t quite figure out how to do anything with that.  He forces his next inhale to come slowly, to try to draw some sense into his muddled brain.

 

He gets one eye open.

 

“Not yet,” someone says.

 

The floor beneath him is still rumbling, but it’s not the familiar give and take of a car.  There are no small bumps or shifts in the road beneath them, no steady thrum of an engine.  There is, but it’s not quite right.  His brain supplies him a fuzzy image of a train, but it’s not that, either.  He’s spent half his life commuting in the underground, and he knows that feeling intimately.

 

Clarity starts to filter in at the edges of his consciousness, and with it comes the very specific and blinding pain in his wrist.  Q groans again, tries to roll away from the pain, and ends up with a heavy something pressing against his chest.  He wills himself to lift his arms to push away the heaviness, but they won’t move.

 

He forces his one eye open again, squints up.  All he gets is the blurry edge of a boot set against his chest before his vision goes black again.

 

Without his sense of sight again, Q’s forced to consider the rumbling beneath him.

 

“Patience,” the voice says, “He’s almost figured it out.”

 

He’s on a plane.

 

Unhinged panic starts to flood through his veins.  Q tries to take a steadying breath, but it doesn’t work.  Fear spills out into his lungs, curls around his bones, tightens every muscle in his body against his will.  It’s not just the plane, but that he has no idea where they’re taking him, and if they’re already in the air, MI-6 wasn’t able to ground air traffic before they left.  They could be taking him anywhere, and the only people who can save him will have no idea where.

 

The adrenaline rushes past the haze of drugs, and Q gets two eyes open this time.  They’ve taken his glasses, evidently, because everything is a shapeless blur of uncertain colors.  “Please,” he whispers, somehow, though he’s not sure if he actually makes noise.

 

“Yes,” the voice says, “Now.”

 

Q tries to say no, tries to wrench away, but the boot on his chest presses harder, throwing the air from his lungs, and he’s helpless to stop the needle that slides into a vein near his elbow.

 

——

 

James arrives in Q branch feeling like he’s just run a marathon.  Luis passes him as he stops just inside the branch, walking quickly over to where M is pacing in front of his desks.

 

He’s never seen the branch quite so full.  R is at his desk, though he looks frazzled and like he’s just woken up.  Judging from the jeans and white t-shirt with the formula for serotonin stamped across the front, James thinks he might’ve rolled right out of bed and grabbed the first thing he could find.  His hair is in an equal state of disarray, his normally perfectly styled dark curls unruly and falling over his forehead.

 

Nala is also at his desk, gesturing frantically at whatever he’s looking through.  James has never seen her in anything but a dress, so the teal leggings and loose, grey top give him pause.  She looks up when Luis strides past her, and immediately straightens, turning.

 

“Bond,” she says, and abandons R.

 

The rest of the branch doesn’t stir, all too busy typing or at each other’s desks, brainstorming.  Every single one of them appears to be present, though.

 

“What do we know?” he asks as Nala stops in front of him.

 

“Is there anything, anything at all, that Q might not have told someone?” she asks, “A new tracking prototype that he was trying out?  Or if someone had threatened him?  M said—”

 

“No,” James says, “What about the tracker in his shoulder?”

 

“Gone,” Nala says, “They took it out before they left his neighborhood.  Yes, and the one in his ankle.  There’s nothing else?”

 

James shakes his head slowly, shifting his gaze from Nala to M, who is nodding absentmindedly to whatever Luis is saying.  When he spots James, he stops, and his frown deepens.

 

“Alright,” Nala says tightly, “Well, we know that they got into the air before Eve could ground air traffic.”  James doesn’t react other than to nod once and walk away from Nala.  She sighs, and goes back to R.

 

“Where is everyone?” James asks as he stops by M and Luis.

 

“On their way,” M says, “All available agents are being brought in.”

 

“How do you know?” James asks.

 

“They left footage on the CCTV outside his building.  Keira?”

 

One of the monitors behind them changes, showing a blurry image of three people, all wearing bone masks, and a collapsed heap on the ground that is undoubtedly Q.  They’re all facing the camera, one hand lifted in a wave.

 

James swallows, but keeps everything else behind a wall.

 

“We’ll be briefing in twenty,” M continues, “Our goal is to get him back in under twenty-four hours.”

 

“That seems generous,” James says, and doesn’t look at M when he sighs miserably.

 

——

 

They wake him up to move him.  They leave his hands unbound, his mouth ungagged, and they send adrenaline rushing through his exhausted body to shock him awake.  Q comes to with a dull sound, like nails raking over his throat, and jerks upright, gasping.  Every part of him is shaking.  It’s difficult to swallow, but his mouth tastes like bile and copper, and he feels like he might vomit otherwise.  When he lifts his head, there’s an unmasked woman squatting in front of him, just out of reach.

 

“Good morning,” she says pleasantly.  Even squatting, it’s evident that she’s tall.  Q can’t tell much else beyond that as she’s bundled beneath several layers of winter clothing, though he takes stock of the identifying features of her face—dark skin, darker eyes, close cropped, dark hair, a scar across the left side of her face, and a mouth made for smiling.  She does so now, and it’s disarming in all of the right ways.

 

Q, having been tortured with James Bond for the last four years, doesn’t flinch.

 

“Right,” she says, “I forgot who you’re married to.  I admit, I was a little eager to meet you finally.  You’ll be hard to break.”

 

Q lifts an eyebrow.  He’s not interested in this, and only listens enough to gather any important information as he shifts the rest of his attention to his own body.  His wrist isn’t quite as painful as it had been before, and when he tries to wiggle his fingers, it’s to find that they’ve reset and splinted his hand.  There’s a needle in the crook of his elbow, taped down and leading up to a small IV bag secured to the wall next to him.  They’re still in the plane, though they’re not moving.

 

“To put your mind at ease, Q, we’re not going to kill you.”

 

Q drops his eyebrow at this, and looks away from her, over to the windows.  All he can see is endless white.

 

“Quite the opposite, actually.  I’d like you to work for us.”

 

“Well,” Q says, still looking around the plane.  There’s nothing in the near vicinity that he could use as a weapon.  “I’m afraid you’ve gone about the hiring process all wrong.”

 

She laughs, a small, wonderful sound.  Q takes his time returning his attention to her, and narrows his eyes when he finds that charming smile again.  “I knew we’d get along,” she says, “My name is Nyarai.  It’s South African, from the Shona dialect.  Rowan is—Irish, yes?  A surname originally, though, I believe.”

 

“Or a tree with a long lore of protective abilities,” Q says, responding with a smile of his own.  It’s a twisted, sardonic one, though, and Nyarai’s own smile twitches at it.

 

“Your brothers each have strong Irish names.  Your mother’s doing?”

 

“What do you want?” Q demands.  He doesn’t frame it like a question he’s hoping an answer from, but rather something he will take no less than the truth from.

 

“In good time,” Nyarai says, “Supervillain monologues are so outdated.  We have arrived, though, so you can finally have a look at where you’ll be staying.  Took some time getting here, but it’s still quite a feat that we made it here this fast.  I’ve been eager to try out the new engines on our private jets.  I admit, I’m quite proud with the outcome.  Only six hours.  Come along, then.”

 

She stands, stepping away from him and to the wall where a jacket is hanging.

 

“Six hours?” Q repeats, “Where are we?”  He sets his good hand beneath him, and carefully climbs to his feet, surprised at how steady he is.  He casts a glance around, but doesn’t see anyone beside Nyarai.  He can’t understand why they’re not guarding him better, not with everything he knows about them.

 

Q starts to reach for the needle in his elbow when Nyarai says, “Troll station.  Bit far, I know, but—”

 

“ _Troll station_.”  Q hates the way that his voice breaks in half, but there’s nothing to do but accept the fear.  He’s going to be dead long before MI-6 is ever going to find him.

 

“Hence,” Nyarai says, “the jacket.”  Q doesn’t move when she approaches him.  There’s nothing he can do.  She’s careful when she takes the IV from his arm, her fingers gentle against his skin.  “You won’t need this anymore, I don’t think,” she says, and Q can hear the victory in her voice.

  
He sways a little when she tugs the jacket on.  “Oh, it’s not that bad,” Nyarai says as she comes back around to face him.  He’s sure he looks a right state, the color gone from his already pale face and everything drained from his eyes but pure fear.  “It’s really rather beautiful once you’ve gotten past the cold.”

 

Q is numb already.  He’s a dead man walking.  Nyarai takes him by the arm, and walks for him, leading him toward a set of doors.

 

He’s never going to see James again.

 

He’s never going to fall asleep fighting for space with his cats again.

 

He’s never going to talk to R or hear Nala’s laugh again.

 

He’s never going to see Eve or M or any of his branch or— _god_ , or his brothers.  He can’t imagine what they must be thinking right now, if M’s even told them.

 

They go through the doors, and the cold is bone deep.  It hits him like a gunshot, and Q closes his eyes against it.

 

He thinks of the sharp, pale blue of James’s eyes when Nyarai curls a hand around the back of his neck and whispers, “Open your eyes, or I’ll send one of the girls still in London after Desmond’s youngest.  Bridget, yes?”

 

Q opens his eyes.

 

The endless wasteland of Antarctica stares back at him.

 

——

 

They have zero leads.  Regardless, M has no less than five agents in the field at the moment, en route to countries that showed the barest hint of possibility.  He knows better than to send James on one of these wild goose chases, who is currently pacing back and forth in their bedroom, glaring at the wall of information they’ve collected about the God of Small Things.

 

All three cats are with him—Joyce wound into a tight ball, purring as she naps, occasionally opening an eye to watch him; Keats with all of his paws tucked beneath him so that he looks like a loaf of bread, and his eyes following James’s fast clip back and forth; Oscar on the shelf beneath the wall of information, throwing things onto the floor at random.

 

“007,” R says.

 

James stops, and waits.  Oscar pauses in throwing a pen to the ground, watching him.  One of Keats’s ears twitches.  Joyce keeps purring.

 

“Nala believes they were speaking an African dialect.  She’s still working to identify it.”

 

James doesn’t respond, but doesn’t move, either.  He waits, listening to R breathe.

  
“I just,” R begins, and exhales loudly.

 

“He’s not in Africa,” James says.

 

“Yes,” R agrees, “Is this that hunch thing you’re always on about?”

 

“R,” James says slowly, blue eyes flicking up to the picture of Alec.

 

“Mhm?”  He can hear him typing in the background.

  
“Where is 0010 at the moment?”

 

The typing slows, and then stops altogether.  “Oh!” he says suddenly, “Oh.  Oh, okay.”  R starts typing again, and the sound is so familiar that James has to close his eyes for a moment.

 

He thinks of waking up in bed, surrounded by warmth and sunlight and purring cats, to the gentle clack of Q working.

 

“0010, R here.  Do you speak any African dialects?”

 

“Several,” Ebele says, and though her voice is even, James can hear the concentrated movement of it and knows that she’s on the move.

 

“Are you busy?” R asks.

 

“I can listen and run at the same time,” she says, “Closing in on the warehouse in France now.”

 

James resumes his pacing as R pulls up the video from Alec’s death and plays it without the translation over it.  Ebele hums thoughtfully.  James stops in front of the wall, eyes narrowing as he stares at a frozen image of that day.  Ten people with Alec on his knees, the danger end of a gun pressed against his temple.  He frowns, steps closer, and tugs the image down.

 

“Akan, maybe?  I can’t be sure.  Can you connect me with Thema?”

 

“R,” James says as he starts typing again.

 

“Oh, hello, Bond,” Ebele says conversationally, “I’ve arrived at the warehouse.  Looking for an entrance now.”

 

“Can you send me that video?”

 

“0012, R here,” R says, “Sending, 007.”

 

“Thema,” Ebele says, “Is this Akan?”

 

There’s the sound of the video being played again as James’s mobile dings.  He lifts it from the shelf where Oscar hasn’t ventured yet, and opens it up.

 

“No,” Thema whispers, “Is it—Shona?”

 

“Yes!” Ebele exclaims, “I’ve found another entrance.  Hang tight.”

 

“Where might one live if they speak Shona, 0012?” James asks as he watches the video.

 

“South,” Thema says, “Just a moment, yeah?”

 

James plays it again, zooming in on the person speaking.  “They’re women,” he says just after Thema’s gun goes off.

 

“They’re not just African, either,” Thema says, “Oh, shut up.  It’s just a flesh wound.  I’ve got one.  Yeah, nice fucking mask.”  There’s the distinct sound of bones snapping.  “Fuck you, and your little cult, too.”

 

“All of them?” R asks.

 

“Hang on,” Thema says.  There’s a grunt on her line, though it doesn’t come from her.  “I’ll break that mouth off your goddamn face if you don’t stop smirking.  Are there any men?”

 

“Men are weak,” a heavily accented voice says.

 

“Italian,” James and R say at the same time.

 

“We are women of the world.”

 

“Warehouse is empty,” Ebele says sadly, “R?”

 

“There are no other leads in France.  Keira will send a hotel to your mobile.  Remain there for now, and we’ll let you know where to go next,” R says.

 

“0010 signing off.”

 

“0012, another sentence, please.  R?” James says.

 

“Looks like you’re pretty fucking weak, too, yeah?” Thema taunts, “Never thought we’d sneak up on one of you?  Oh, don’t even give me that face.  Men aren’t weak.  People are weak unless you train them not to be.  Doesn’t seem like your training went over that well.”

 

“We are not weak!  We will not submit to the world of men!”

 

“I’m a fucking woman, honey, so you’re preaching to the wrong choir,” Thema says.

 

“Sicilian,” R says, “Palermo, maybe?”

 

“Well, shit,” Thema says, “That’s impressive.  Were you born in Italy?”

 

“Messina,” R says, “But we moved a lot.  M’s sent a directive to—stay put?  Oh.  _Oh_.  He’s, uh—Bond, you’re being sent to 0012.  The location has been dropped into the Martin.  It’s just outside of London.”

 

James reaches out a hand to wrap around Oscar’s head, stroking his thumb between his eyes.  Oscar nudges his head up happily into his hand, his wet nose dragging against his palm.  “Have we found anyone else?” he asks.

 

“Nala, anything?”  There’s a pause, and then, “Germany and Italy were dead ends.  009 thinks he’s found something in South America.  I’ll keep you posted.”

 

James nods to himself, plucks Oscar from the shelf, and drops him between Joyce and Keats.  “If I find you’ve stuffed him back in the blinds, you’re dead.”  Keats meows indignantly.  Joyce doesn’t lift her head.  Thema clears her throat.

 

“What’s the plan, Bond?” she asks.

 

“Break her faster than they break Q,” James says, and leaves the room, “Signing off.”  He pockets the earpiece, taps into his contacts on his phone, and dials Shae.

 

He’s downstairs, in the lobby, before Shae answers.  “Hello?”

 

“It’s James.”

 

“James?” Shae repeats.

  
“Bond,” James says.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Shae says, “Sorry, mate, it’s—uh, it’s five in the morning.”

 

“So it is,” James says as he exits the building.  The new day is just beginning to stretch its arms, the darkness of night washed away in the soft glow of the rising sun.  “I’ve got some news,” James says.

 

“Fuck,” Shae whispers.

 

“I’m on my way to interrogate a woman who is part of a group that kidnapped your brother.  We don’t know where he is, but we do know who they are.  If the kids are still in school, you need to keep them home until we can figure this out.  They know who you are.  Agents have already been dispatched to your homes.”

 

“ _Fuck_.”

 

“Can you relay this to Connor and Desmond?”

  
“Yes.  James—”

 

“I know,” James says as he slides into his car, “I’m going to find him.”

 

“Please,” Shae pleads.

 

James hangs up, and pulls away from the curb.  He drives like Eve, and he thinks it might be because of his shaking hands and cracking heart rather than in order to get to Thema as soon as possible.

 

——

 

After Nyarai shows him around their small set of buildings, and confirms that yes, of course they did away with the researchers who were here before them, Q realizes just how large they are.  The buildings, he knew, once housed eight people maximum during the winter, and sometimes as many as forty people during the summer.  That was when Troll station was nothing more than a research center.

 

Now, though, it’s a base of operations, something much larger and much fiercer than he could have ever imagined out in this no man’s land.  It’s still rather small, though Nyarai tells him that this is because they’re trying to blend in.  She talks the whole time she’s showing him around, though they don’t enter any of the buildings.  By the time they finally stop, Q’s body is numb with cold.  He can’t feel his toes, and he has to keep flexing the fingers of his good hand to stop them from tingling.  The fingers of his bad hand are like a phantom limb, and it’s all he can do to keep from crying.  His face hurts, both from the bitter temperature and the wind.  When they stop, he stumbles, and Nyarai catches him, hand curling tight around his arm.

 

“I know,” she says gently, “It’s almost over.  This—” she pauses to release him, and steps forward to wrench open a door.  It’s a small building, with a low ceiling and no furniture inside.  Q frowns as he looks inside.  There’s nothing but four walls, a floor, and a ceiling.  It’s not that deep, and everything is black, though it looks like that’s from lack of light than from an actual color.  “This is where you’ll be staying,” she says, reaching for his arm again.

 

Q steps out of her reach as panic starts to leak past his defenses again.

 

“What is this?” he asks, but he thinks he knows.

 

“Call this insurance,” Nyarai says, “I am under no impression that you will be easy to break, Q.  This will help.”

 

“No,” Q says, taking another step back.

 

Nyarai sighs, and reaches into her pocket.  “I’m not going to throw you in there like some wild animal,” she says as though she’s disappointed.  Her thumb taps something, and she lifts the phone to her ear.  Q watches her, brows drawing together.  His heart is in his throat.  “Yes, hi,” Nyarai says, her voice light and airy, “Is this—sorry, I’m drawing a blank.  What’s your name?”

 

She grins at whatever answer she gets, and this smile is not like the other, easy-going ones he’s seen.  She is a piranha, rows of brilliant teeth ready to strike.

 

“Darling,” she cuts the other person off, “Let’s just—clean slate.  I was lying to you.  It’s Dante, yes?”  Q’s heart drops out of his throat and straight through his stomach to wither away beneath his numb toes.

 

“No,” he says.

 

Nyarai carries on, “You’re dating—help me out, Q.  What was his name?  Adrian?  Andrew?  Adam?  _Right_.  Aidan.  Four sisters?  And your father’s dead, but your mother’s alive and well.  Here’s the thing, Dante.”

 

“Stop,” Q says, “Please.”

 

Nyarai reaches into her jacket, and pulls out a gun.  “I’ve got your Q in front of me.  On his knees, begging for his life.  It’s such a shame, really.  I thought he’d be better than this.  Say hello, Q.  Quickly, please, we haven’t much time if your branch is as good as you.”

 

He has two choices, he knows.  He can play along, yell to R that he’s okay, that everything’s going to be fine.  He can keep his brothers safe if he plays the demure, terrified part Nyarai expects him to.  He can depend on someone else to find him, and hopefully, to save him.  Or, and he thinks this might be James whispering in his ear, he can use the komodo dragon staring him down.

 

In the end, he really only has one choice.

 

“Dronning Maud!” he screams, “Troll station!  Haakon VII Sea!  Southeast of—”

 

Nyarai shoots him.

 

——

 

James looks up as Thema frowns at her phone.  “Something you’d like to share with the class?” he asks.

 

The Sicilian woman is slumped over in her chair, her breathing shallow.  James moves one of the needles beneath her fingernail, and she whimpers softly.

 

“R’s got something,” she says, and lifts a hand to her ear.

 

James moves another needle, and waits until Thema’s eyes go wide.  “We have to go,” she says, already turning away, “Leave her.  R found him.”

 

Instead, James shoots her, a neat little bullet through the temple.

 

They start running.

 

——

 

“All things considered, it could be worse,” Q says to no one in particular.  He’s been in the deprivation chamber for one hour, and he already hates the silence.  Although, if he’s honest with himself, it was really only silent for a half hour as he was too busy trying not to die for the first thirty minutes.

 

“When all this is over,” Q says, “I’m going to anonymously send my optometrist several thousand dollars that I’ve appropriated from the NSA.  Fuckers think they can just slap me on the wrist, and that’ll keep me out.  Ha, nope.”

 

The first three minutes were spent in pure panic.  Q couldn’t breathe, and remained slumped against the wall, shaking and gasping.

 

Three minutes was far too long to occupy himself with panic, though, and Q’s brain started digging itself out, counting the passing seconds until Q could breathe again.

 

At minute four, he inhaled, held his breath at the top, pushed himself upright, and exhaled.  Though he hadn’t been trained for the field, he was still an MI-6 agent, and he was going to act like one.

 

“And really, if they hadn’t tried to kick me out of their systems, I might have redacted those files faster, and we wouldn’t be here.  Good point.  I’ll bring that up in the debrief.”

 

Though they’d taken out the two trackers in his body, left his phone and jacket in London, which held a few more, and even broken his right wrist, they hadn’t taken his glasses, and they didn’t know he was ambidextrous.

 

His glasses were perhaps the most modified thing he’d ever created.  There were all sorts of tools hidden in the frames, the glass was fairly indestructible—after that time Nala easily snapped them into pieces with her heel, he started working on his own lenses, durable enough to withstand some fairly nasty explosions—and there was a setting for night vision.  There hadn’t been any room at the time for another tracker, though Q resolves to install that as soon as he’s back in London.

 

“Coordinates would have been easier to track,” he continues.  “Though I doubt she would have let me get it all out.  Though there’s a certain level of mystique—ah,” he breaks off to suck on his thumb.  One of the wires he’s playing with makes a face at him, so Q sneers back at it.

 

Armed with night vision, a tiny, collapsible pair of pliers from the right side of his frames, a needle from the left side, thread from the jacket, and no need to remain quiet, Q shucked off his trousers and settled for shouting every Shakespearean swear he could remember as he dug the bullet out of his knee.

 

He’d finally been treated with Nyarai’s fury when she didn’t do what he wanted, and after shooting him, she’d thrown him carelessly into the chamber before she slammed the door on him.

 

It took him ten minutes to locate the bullet, four excruciating ones to extract it, thirty seconds to give his hands time to stop shaking, and then sixteen minutes to stitch up the wound.

 

“Coordinates via Morse code, though,” Q says as he crosses two wires, “That’s the stuff of spy novels.”

 

He gave himself thirty minutes to calm down, his legs propped up against the wall to ease the pressure on his knee.  Q thinks he may have fallen asleep for a few minutes in the middle there, but then he was up and tearing apart his watch.

 

“Well,” he reasons, “Not my watch.  That was smart to take away.  I could have easily patched in with that.  This goddamn thing, however.”  He flicks the edge of the watch’s casing before he goes back to work.

 

It was Nyarai’s parting gift.  “So you can count the seconds before you die,” she’d spat.  It was digital, he assumed, because they lived in a brave new world.  He preferred analog, but the wiring inside this was easier to work with.

 

“Alright,” he says after a length of silence, “Someone better be listening, or you’re all fired.”

 

——

 

R doesn’t think he’s ever seen quite so many double oh’s in one place.  Even more than that, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many working together at once.  He’s working on putting together kits for each of them, though he can’t help but glance up every so often when a new one walks in.

 

Despite M’s orders to stay put, Charles and Kellan abandoned their missions immediately upon hearing the news.  Kellan is still in the air on a commercial flight, but Charles stole a helicopter and was reportedly on his way to Antarctica.  James and Thema were the first to return, and while Thema is over in a corner with Ebele, James hasn’t been seen in almost an hour.  Adrienne is still in the field, but last R heard, she’d stolen an incredibly fast and gorgeous car, nearly shot someone at the border of Finland, and was making her way to the coast.  Adelaide is out with Reese on a food run, Luis is filling tea and coffee requests around the branch, and even Bradley’s here, though he’s carefully avoiding everyone.

 

And though he shouldn’t be surprised, when James’s voice comes out of absolutely nowhere from behind him, R nearly drops the gun he’s holding.  “Is that it, then?”

 

“For Christ’s sake,” R swears, setting the gun down.  “I’m not Q, okay.  You can’t sneak up on me like that.”

 

James leans against the desk, arms folded across his chest.  He is nothing like the man he’s been in the last half year.  When Q confided in him, in February, that James was starting to consider retirement, R hadn’t been shocked.  He looked like a man beginning to settle in his roots, a man that had finally figured out what home meant, and was ready to stay there.  Now, though, he looks like the James Bond R first met.  His movements are careful and calculated.  His eyes are cold, but wild.  He is a broken, unpredictable man, and no one is safe.

 

“Is that it, then?” he asks.

 

“Nearly,” R says.  He turns back to the gun as he continues, “This becomes a statement, you know.”

 

“I’m aware.”

 

“A rather large one at that.  Sending the entire double oh division is like—” he falters, unsure how to proceed.

 

“Declaring war?” James suggests.

 

“Precisely.”

 

R glances at him.  James stares back, unyielding.

 

“It sends a message,” R says.

 

“Good or bad?” James asks.

 

“Both.  Good: MI-6’s quartermaster is not to be trifled with.  Bad: MI-6’s quartermaster is our vulnerability.  On the other hand, though.”

 

This time, when R glances at him, it’s to find James smiling, soft enough that he almost misses it.  “Indeed,” James agrees as he straightens away from the desk.  R sighs when he finds one of the kits have disappeared.  “MI-6’s quartermaster might already have rescued himself.”

 

“And thus is a danger to everyone no matter what,” R says.

 

He finishes the last kit, looks up, and blinks.  James is gone.

 

R sighs, and is about to call order to the branch when he notices a small, flashing notification in the corner of one of his screens.  He opens it up, frowns at the strange string of dots and dashes sliding across his screen, and then lets out a soft, barely there laugh.  He hadn’t really been able to understand Q’s distant, and sudden, shouting through the phone, but he’d heard enough to figure where in Antarctica he was.  The exact location, however, was still a mystery they were trying to solve until this second.  “Holy shit, Q,” he whispers, and then, “We’ve got coordinates!”

 

——

 

Q keeps tapping out the Morse code even when his fingers start to ache.  His knee is throbbing, and his thoughts are sluggish.  He lost the night vision a few hours ago, though it was never meant for extended periods of time.  He focuses on this one thing, on getting his message across, even as the wires start to aggravate the skin of his fingers, even when his fingers start bleeding, even when his brain just wants to stop working.

 

When, ultimately, his fingers are too numb to be getting anything but nonsense across, Q lets the dismantled watch clatter to the ground, and sags to the side, closing his eyes.

 

He can’t really be sure if they were open in the first place.  Everything is so dark, and surprisingly cold.  He imagined the chamber would be insulated, and though it’s not cold like it is outside, he wonders how well the insulation is working if he’s this cold.  He tries to make himself get up, to move around, but he’s so tired, and he just wants to lie here, maybe sleep for a little.

 

Q has no sense of time, just that it’s passing.  Even then, he’s not entirely sure it is.  It feels like everything has slowed down, like seconds are taking hours to pass, like maybe he’s stuck in a loop of this moment, over and over and over again.

 

He stops shivering eventually.  His brain tries to tell him that this means something, but Q gives in to the urge to sleep, and stops trying to figure out why that’s important.

 

——

 

R sends them to a British research center on the coast of Weddell Sea.  From there, a guide will fly them to a South African center northwest of Troll station where they’ll have to fend for themselves.

 

It takes them almost a day to fly to Halley, and James is starting to wonder if Q will be alive when they finally reach him.

 

——

 

Daylight floods in just as Q is beginning to gasp for breath.  He’s blinded by it, but his body won’t move to shield him from it.  He lies there, slowly being burned to ashes, fire consuming his lungs, until a shadow eclipses the sun.

 

“Get him a mask,” Nyarai’s voice says.

 

Another shadow crosses hers, and Q realizes his eyes are open.  The shadow kneels in front of him, and materializes into a person.  She fits an oxygen mask against his face, and Q closes his eyes.

 

“Break the watch, and take his glasses.”

 

He’s a little like Gandalf, he muses, as his glasses are slid off his face and pocketed.  Everyone trusted him with his staff, too.

 

——

 

R doesn’t lift his head when he hears Nala stop at his desk.  He assumes it’s her—most everyone else has gone home for the night.  There’s not much to do what with their agents in the air for the next several hours.  They’ll all be required back in about eight hours to get back to work, but R’s thinking about crashing on the sofa.

 

“R,” Nala says softly.  He feels her kneel down next to him, and he turns his head so that his temple leans against his forearm.

 

“Hi,” he says tiredly.

 

Nala smiles sadly at him.  “How are you doing?” she asks.

 

R shrugs one shoulder.  “Been better, been worse,” he says, “You?”

 

“About the same,” she says, “Think you can manage a little more?”

 

R nods, lifting his head.  “Yeah,” he says, starting to reach for his laptop.

 

“No,” Nala says, “Not that.  Um.  Q’s brothers are here.  M’s got them in secure rooms downstairs.  Eve’s on her way down, as well.”

 

“Oh,” R says, “Uh, yeah.  Okay.”

 

“M would stay with them, but—”

 

“No, no, of course,” R says, standing up, “He’s got a million fires to put out with all this.  Are they here until it’s over?”  R tugs a sweatshirt on over his serotonin shirt, grabs his phone, and follows Nala out of the branch.

 

“Yeah, I think so,” Nala says as they head for the lift.  “M was worried they might be targeted now that Q’s shown he’s not going to cooperate.”  The doors ding open, and they step inside.  “Have you ever met them?” she asks.

 

“His brothers?  No.  I don’t even know their names, honestly.”

 

“Thank god for Eve,” Nala says as she pulls out her phone.  “This is Desmond,” she continues, showing him a photo.  He looks nothing like Q, and it makes R smile in a soft, sad sort of way.  Where Q is tall and lanky, this man is broad-shouldered and well-rounded with muscles and a healthy tan.  He’s got Q’s curls, though they’re lighter, matching his brown eyes.  “He’s the oldest,” Nala says, “And this is Connor.  Middle.”  He looks similar in every way to Desmond, and only has Q’s curls again.  “And the last one is Shae, a year older than Q.  They’ve all got families, too, but M just asked us to talk to them.”

 

“It’s a little weird,” R says as they step out onto one of the lower levels.

 

“That he’s less of a mystery now?” Nala guesses.

 

R nods, and looks over at Nala uncertainly.  “How do you think this ends?” he asks.

 

“He’s coming back,” Nala says firmly, “If I have to go out there and drag him back myself.”

 

R smiles, nods again, and leads the way down the hall.

 

——

 

They wrap him in heavy blankets, sit him down in an uncomfortable chair, and hand him a thermos that he can’t hold in his numb hands.  Instead, he lets it rest against the blankets and lays his knuckles across it.  They give him back his glasses, though they put them on the table in front of him and smile because they know he can’t move enough to reach them.

 

Nyarai sits across the table from him, and picks up his glasses.  She teases at the frames until she manages to dislodge the needle, and her smile is a soft, warming thing.  “Genius,” she says, dropping the needle to the table.  “It didn’t even occur to me to take these.”  She keeps prodding at the frames.

 

Q doesn’t respond.  He’s still trying to figure out how to breathe again, and the world starts spinning if he moves too quickly; or really, at all.  Instead, he just keeps inhaling and exhaling, the oxygen mask tucked snugly around his mouth and nose.

 

The pliers clatter to the table.

 

“I’m sorry I shot you,” she says.

 

Q manages to lift an eyebrow in disbelief.  He considers it a victory when Nyarai’s smile flickers.

 

“I’d like us to work together, Q, but I need you to work _with_ me first.  I don’t want to put you back in there.”

 

Fear tries to stampede across his heart, but Q inhales slowly, overwhelms the fear with the knowledge that he’s still alive, that he’s survived this long, and lifts his other eyebrow on the exhale.

 

A miniature screwdriver joins the other tools.  He’d had to redesign it several times before it would fit.

 

“Perhaps if I explain what it is that we’re doing here,” Nyarai says.  She stops prodding at his glasses, and leans across the table to ease them onto his face.  “There we go,” she says when he starts blinking rapidly.

 

The world starts to tip.

 

Q’s stomach heaves itself up into his throat.

 

Nyarai sighs, and lifts a hand.

 

Q closes his eyes, swallows his stomach, and forces his body to just breathe.  His fingers unravel to curl around the thermos, and he focuses on that, the sensation of warmth starting to leech back into his frozen body.

 

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but when he opens his eyes again, Nyarai is watching him with an expression he can’t read.  Q moves slowly, carefully unscrewing the top of the thermos and lifting it to peer inside.  It just appears to be liquid, and he doesn’t think that they’d poison him after everything, so he holds the thermos in one hand and removes the mask with the other.

 

What he doesn’t expect is tea.

 

He exhales something that could be misconstrued as a laugh when he lowers the thermos.  “Lavender?” he asks.

 

“Lemongrass and honey, too,” Nyarai says.

 

“Fine,” Q says, “Color me impressed.”

 

Nyarai gestures a hand at him.  “You’re the one that dug a bullet out of your knee with a pair of pliers hidden in your _glasses_.  The honor is mine, Q.”

 

“What do you want?” he asks.

 

“Are you going to give it to me?” Nyarai asks.

 

Q shrugs.

 

——

 

Halfway through the flight, James can’t stand the sound of it anymore—the quiet whisper of conversation meant to distract, the sound of cards folding and unfolding together, hands sweeping through games in an effort to forget, just for a moment, the half-silence surrounding failed attempts to sleep—and he fishes out a pair of wireless headphones.  He slips them in, takes out his phone next, and uses a back door into Q’s network that only he has access to.  He pulls up his music library, scrolls through his playlist until he finds one labeled _shall we play a game?_ , and has no control over the small smile that twists at his mouth.

 

Never, in his lifetime, did he think he would fall for such an enormous nerd.

 

James opens the playlist, selects the first song, and starts to shut off his phone when a thought occurs to him.  Though he only got this one in November, he imagines Q uploaded everything from his old personal mobile.  As the first song starts, something called _Quieter is Louder_ that is surprisingly rather tame for what he usually listens to while at work, James clicks out of the library and over to his photos.

 

There aren’t many, but there are enough that his heart tries to rip itself in half.

 

Q, still in bed, the sheets shucked down around his waist, pooling in his lower back, his arms stretched up overhead, his hair an utter mess of sleep twisted curls, and the honeycomb tattoo across his back and arm just begging to be bitten.

 

Keats, in mid-yawn, with Q’s face in his belly.  James can hear the sounds he’d been making, the awful high pitch to his voice, can feel in his ribs how hard he’d laughed at him.

 

Oscar after his first vet visit, cradled in Q’s arms, tucked up beneath his chin, as Q hummed softly, rocking him side to side in the kitchen.

 

A book spine resting against his ribs, Q’s dark curls hiding his face, his warm exhales fanning out over James’s collarbone, sometimes taking the shape of words when he read a particular sentence out loud that he enjoyed, and the bare curve of his shoulder rising and falling with each breath.

 

Joyce perched between his shoulders, her front paws kneading into his spine even as Q whined pitifully at her, though he refused to move, claiming she never loved him enough.

 

Something like salt rushes across his senses, and James quickly shuts off the phone, tips his head toward the window, and closes his eyes.

 

The songs are full of thunder and energy, songs that wrap around his lungs and breathe air back into them with the sheer force of their volume.  They’re Q’s quick hands when he’s coding and rapid blinking when he’s confused and fast heartbeat when he’s bowed beneath James.  They’re nothing he would ever willingly listen to, but with his very being slowly tearing at the edges, James can’t stop listening.

 

He hides his face from the world because he thinks he might be crying, and he can’t remember the last time someone meant this much to him.

 

——

 

Like every other unoriginal villain in the world, Nyarai wants him to hack into MI-6.   Unlike everyone else, when he blatantly refuses, she says, “I get that.  Loyalty to your home, and all.  Fine, then.  The NSA will work just as well.”

 

This piques Q’s interest, and he asks, “For what?”

 

“Will or won’t you?” Nyarai asks.

 

“I’m biased,” Q says, “We don’t get along.”

 

Nyarai’s charming smile floods her face as she leans back in her chair, arms folding over her chest.  “What did you do?” she asks.

 

“Nothing they didn’t deserve.”

 

Nyarai regards him for a long moment before she lifts a hand.  A moment later, a door near the back of the room opens, and a woman takes quick, evenly spaced steps to cross the room, sets a laptop down, and walks back out.  From her jacket draped across the back of her chair, Nyarai retrieves a small notebook and a pen.

 

“First,” she says as she flips open the notebook and begins to write, “You’re going to make us disappear.  I don’t care if you have to kill us to do it, as long as we don’t exist after.”

 

“I’ll need names,” Q says, “Personal information.”

 

“Files are being brought in as we speak.  Second—”

 

“What did you do?” Q asks.

 

Nyarai carefully doesn’t look up, but her voice is tight when she says, “You’ll see.”  Though Q hasn’t verbally agreed to anything, Nyarai seems to see something that leads her to believe Q is going to cooperate.  He almost feels bad.  “Second,” she continues, “I need full files on a list of names.  No redactions.”

 

“Might take more than the NSA,” Q says.

 

Nyarai keeps writing.  “ _You’re_ trying to haggle with _me_?  Are you sure?”

 

“Her Majesty pays well,” Q says simply.

 

“And before that?” Nyarai asks, “When you were busy breaking the law?”

 

Q’s expression sharpens.  He wants to ask how much she knows, but doesn’t want to hear the answer.  Instead, he says, “Already, this would be a hefty fee.”

 

“You’ll be compensated with your life.”

 

“If we’re to work _together_ , Nyarai, I expect compensation in my bank account.”

 

Nyarai looks up, and makes her first mistake.  Her eyes are full of surprise, and her mouth is a thin line of disbelief.

 

Q carefully tucks that away for later before he leans forward, setting the thermos down on the table.  “Finish your hit list, and we can talk about price.  If you meet my terms, maybe we can come to an agreement.”

 

She isn’t quick enough to compose her face, and Q sees the rage boiling beneath her cool demeanor.  “That sounds fair,” she says, and sounds like she wants to strangle him.  Even so, she looks back down, and keeps writing.

 

Q unscrews the top on the thermos, sips at the still hot tea, and sets the cap back down on the table, left hand wrapped tight around the thermos.  He shrugs off the blankets, an involuntarily tremor shivering through him at the loss of warmth.

 

“And third,” Nyarai says, “there are three organizations that we need taken care of.”

 

“Murdered,” Q clarifies.  His thighs tense, his shoulders wrapping tight together.  He holds his breath as Nyarai finishes her list.

 

She caps the pen, taps it against the list, and says, “Yes, if you must put it that way.”

 

As soon as her head starts to tip up, Q upends the hot tea over her short hair.  She shouts, both in surprise and in pain, jerking backward.  Q whips the thermos at her, and it hits her full in the face.  He lunges across the table, grabs for the back of her shirt, and hauls her down against the table.  Nyarai’s head bounces, and she swears loudly, trying to twist away even as Q’s feet scrape across the floor.  He gets one knee on the table and pulls himself up, throwing his forearm down across Nyarai’s neck.

 

Q knows that this will get him nowhere, but even as the door crashes open and boots crack across the floor, he leans down, close enough that his mouth almost brushes Nyarai’s ear, and whispers, “I’ll make sure everyone knows your name when this is over.”

 

Later, when Q thinks even death might be better, he still doesn’t regret it.

 

——

 

Sanae IV, the South African center, is empty when they arrive.  Scientists won’t be arriving for another few weeks, but they don’t linger long.  They unearth a line of all-terrain vehicles, steal a few granola bars, and map out their plan of attack.

 

James’s plan is nothing more than attack, but he still stands at the table in one of the buildings and listens to them bounce ideas off each other.  It’s a little awe-inspiring, that a scrawny, permanently bedraggled, and sarcastic techie can wrangle some of the world’s deadliest men and women into one mindset and force them to work together, but then James considers that he’s also brilliant, lethal with several different types of weaponry, and once remotely detonated a grenade because he was furious about an agent’s death.  They are not here because of Q’s bluegreygreen eyes, his awful cardigans, or his absurd and endless love of felines, but rather because he is the worst of them all, because he would go to the ends of the earth for them, and because, if he gets out of this alive without their help, he’ll very likely make their lives nothing short of miserable.

 

“Bond?” Adelaide says.  She waits for him to reconnect to their conversation before she continues, “You’re on rescue with Ebele.”

 

He knows that they expect him to argue, but there is no fight left in him.  He wants to go home, but someone took that from him.  And so, he nods.

 

——

 

They put him in a small room with no windows, and not much by way of furniture.  There’s a steel beam in the center of the room, and a rickety wooden chair in the corner, but other than that, it’s just hard concrete and thick, insulated walls.  They leave him with his blankets, though, so Q drags them over to the wall opposite the door, tries to arrange them in something resembling comfort, and drops down into the nest he’s made.

 

He leans back against the wall, drawing his knees to his chest.  He’d saved one blanket to curl up in, and drapes this over his front now.

 

Q knows he shouldn’t relax, but he’s reached a point past exhaustion, and he can’t stop his shoulders from dropping away from his ears, his breaths from fading into something even and steady.

 

He takes off his glasses, massages the bridge of his nose, and then tips his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

 

He thinks of waking up to the smell of pancakes, to spicy eggs, of James’s breathless laugh when he heaps an honest to god mountain of syrup on his waffles, the constant bickering over whether or not Oscar deserves another little sliver of cheese.

 

He thinks of Keats always waking up as soon as they get into bed just so that he can squish himself in between them.

 

He thinks of James’s hands tracing the pattern of his honeycomb, his mouth marking the shape of his circuit board, the way he sometimes traces the two zeroes on the inside of his wrist when he thinks Q isn’t paying attention.

 

He thinks of his blue eyes, the light scratch of his stubble in the morning, the way he tastes like gasoline and gunpowder and smoke at night, but like sage and peppermint and stardust in the morning.

 

He thinks of Joyce sleeping in his lap even though she hates everything and everyone, of late nights spent tucked up on the sofa together, watching whatever show they’re binging at the time, of the absentminded touches and kisses James leaves scattered across his hands and shoulders, the way they’re not looking for anything but a moment to be that much closer.

 

Q’s shoulders jerk up toward his ears, and then they’re jumping lightly as he gives up.

 

He just wants to go home, and they tore him from it.

 

He cries without caring if anyone’s watching him.

 

——

 

With the vehicles they found, Q is only a few hours away, and so they set about doubling up, half of them grumbling about the cold when they’re forced to leave the building.

 

James can’t feel it.  He doesn’t know if he’s numb from the wind, or if he’s numb from not having Q at his side.

 

Either way, he feels like he’s dying.

 

——

 

“Have you ever heard of lingchi?” Nyarai asks the next time he sees her.

 

Q’s eyes are bloodshot, and there are likely still tear tracks on his face, but he doesn’t bother wiping them away.  It hurts to breathe too deeply, his heart is pounding in his wrist, and he’s teetering on the edge of a migraine.  His throat is raw from crying, his muscles won’t stop shaking, and his knee screams every time he tries to move his leg.

 

Q lets out a humorless laugh, and tips his head back against the wall.  “Death by a thousand cuts,” he says, “Chinese.”

 

“A little barbaric, yes,” she says, “But we’ve modified it considerably in the last decade.  It’s quite effective now.”

 

Q lifts his head.  “Shall I pretend to be interested, and ask how?”

 

Nyarai smiles at him, a welcoming gesture.  Even her eyes are soft, open.  Q considers applauding.

 

“Perhaps a demonstration will work better,” she says, and steps to the side.  Two women walk in, carrying a long wooden post between them.  Q watches as they fit it to the steel beam, and secure it with rope at a height that he’ll have difficulty standing properly at.  Their knots are excellent, and he doubts he’ll be able to make them budge.

 

Q shrugs when Nyarai looks at him.

 

“This ends one of two ways,” he says.  When Nyarai merely tilts her head in question, he continues, “One of us dies.  I have no gods to make peace with.  Do you?”

 

“String him up,” Nyarai says, and her smile twists in on itself just enough.

 

Q lets himself be dragged out of his nest, across the floor, and upright where they tie his wrists to the wooden post.  He bites his tongue on a broken noise when they touch his right wrist.  He breathes through his nose, trying to let the rush of air ground him.

 

The two women step back to admire their handiwork, and then one of them unhitches a hammer from her belt.  Q frowns, glancing at Nyarai and then back to the woman.  “What are you—” he starts, and his words fall apart as she holds up a nail.  “No,” Q says, finally starting to struggle, “No, Nyarai, you can’t.  How do you expect me to hack into _anything_ if you—”

 

“Let’s not lie to each other,” Nyarai cuts him off, “Unless you are stripped of your loyalty, your _stubbornness_ —” she spits the word at him, “—and your pride, you are never going to play nicely.  Maybe this will help you see our way.”

 

“No!” Q yells, pulling hard at his arm, “Please, no!  Not my hands!  _No_!  Nyarai.  I’ll do whatever you want, please.”  Q knows he’s starting to beg, starting to sob, but the tip of the nail presses against his palm, and he can’t, he _can’t_.  He makes a fist, trying to push away the nail, trying to do anything.

 

“Hold his hand down,” Nyarai says.

 

“No!” Q screams, yanking at his arm, “Please!  Not my hands, not my hands, _please_.  Nyarai, please, I’ll—”

 

The nail strikes wood.

 

——

 

They split in half, veering off in opposite directions—Adelaide, Reese, Kellan, Bradley, and Luis to the west to check the larger of the buildings, what they’re assuming is their base, James, Ebele, and Thema to the east to check the smaller buildings scattered there.  Charles checked in about an hour ago to say that he’d reached Halley station, and was heading their way with a medical team via plane.  Adrienne checked in as they were arriving at Troll was starting to resolve into separate buildings on the horizon to say that she was on the northern coast of Norway, and surprised them all when she asked them to let her know when they secured their quartermaster.

 

James is terrified that they’re too late.

 

Whole days have passed since Q was taken, and he can’t imagine, after what they did to Alec, and later Adrienne, that they’ve let him live this long.

 

As they approach the first of the small buildings, Ebele and Thema continue onto the next one as James brakes, looking around as the vehicle comes to a stop.  This world of white and ice is unforgiving, and even he’s starting to feel the effects of the cold seeping into his bones.  When he yanks open the door to the building and looks inside, his cold bones threaten to snap.

 

It’s a deprivation chamber, and there’s a long smear of blood on the floor.

 

“He’s in the large building,” he says.

 

“How?” Adelaide asks.

 

“There’s a deprivation chamber out here.  There’s blood on the floor.  It’s dry.”  He hadn’t heard the sound of the gun going off, but just listening to R describe his conversation on the phone with Q made his muscles ache with anger.

 

“Approaching the complex now,” Kellan says, “Keep checking the outer buildings just in case.”

 

James grits his teeth, but slams the door shut, and gets back on his all-terrain vehicle.

 

“Nothing here,” Ebele reports as he starts driving again, going south this time toward another small building.

 

“We’ve reached the back of the complex,” Luis says, “Setting charges.”

 

“Remember,” Adelaide says fiercely.

 

“Remote detonation,” Bradley says, “Don’t worry.  We’re not blowing up the damn building with Q inside.”

 

“R,” Luis says, “You with us?”

 

“Switching to a separate channel now.  Arjuna is tracking both channels should anyone need our attention.  Signing off.”

 

“Nala taking first,” Nala says, “You’ll need to approach on foot from here.  You’re about to reach their field of vision.”

 

“Powering down,” Adelaide says.

 

“Second building empty,” James says.  He slams the door harder this time, his jaw clenching as he turns away.

 

“Fourth one empty, as well,” Thema says, “We’re heading back.”

 

James stalks back over to his vehicle, drops onto it, and just waits.  He stares ahead, unseeing, and waits.  Every second that passes, his resolve hardens.  He is never returning to this life.

 

“We’re inside,” Adelaide whispers, “Spreading out.”

 

James imagines them, Adelaide, Kellan, and Reese splitting up, moving in opposite directions as they check doors, peer around corners, silence their breaths and footsteps.

 

“Remember,” Reese whispers, “Eyes on Q before any casualties.”

 

“Where is everyone?” Kellan asks, “Hardly seems like there’s going to be a possibility for casualties.”

 

“Nala, are you getting any readings?” Adelaide asks.

  
“No,” Nala says, and sounds frustrated, “Just the three of you.  Granted, I can only see in your general vicinity, but—wait.  009, you’re approaching something.”

 

“Is this something human?” Kellan asks.

 

“It’s—yes,” Nala says uncertainly, “It might be several people.  Yes.  Sorry, they’re all clustered together, it was hard to get a clear reading.  Should be five or six people around the corner at the end of that hall.”

 

“Wait,” Reese says, “I think I hear something.”

 

“There’s no one near you,” Nala says.

 

James closes his eyes.

 

He counts his heartbeats until they’re in time with his breaths.

 

“Well, there’s someone on the other side of this door,” Reese says, her voice barely a whisper, “Is it possible that—”

 

Someone screams.

 

“Nala, open this door,” Reese says.  Her voice is hollowed out.

 

James opens his eyes.  He’s never heard that sound before, but he knows that it’s Q, knows the shape of his voice well enough to hear it beneath the pain.

 

“Thirty seconds,” Nala says, “Sixty at most.”

 

He powers on his vehicle, checks over his shoulder to find that Ebele and Thema are closing in, and pushes the vehicle as fast as it can go as he races toward the main complex.

 

“Kellan and I are looping around to you, Reese,” Adelaide says.

 

Another scream shatters across their feed, cracking at the end into a broken sob.  “Nala,” Reese pleads.

 

“Almost in.”

 

James reaches where the other vehicles have been parked, and keeps going.  He’s halfway there when an alarm starts blaring.

 

“Goddamn it, Bond,” Adelaide swears.

 

“Open,” Nala says.

 

He can see red lights swooping through the windows, imagines the others running now that their cover has been blown, and keeps driving.

 

Several things happen at once.

 

Arjuna patches Luis and Bradley back into their feed in time for Luis to say, “Charges set.  Who tripped the alarm?”

 

Two gunshots ricochet across their audio before the audible sound of a gasp, and then, “Eyes on Q.”

 

James barrels through the front doors with the all-terrain vehicle, crouched down against the handlebars just before the front bumper hits the doors, and then he jumps to the side, rolling away and up onto his feet.  “Status?” he asks.

 

“Hang on,” Reese says.

 

“We’re rounding the corner to you,” Adelaide says, “Is he alive?”  James climbs over the dismantled doors, and takes off running when he lands on the other side.

 

“Q?”

 

“Please,” Q’s awful, shattered voice mumbles, “Stop.”  James skids around a corner, sees Kellan up ahead, starting to slow, and pushes his body to move faster.

 

“Alive,” Reese says, “But we need to get him out of here.  Q, it’s okay.  You’re safe now.”

 

“James.”

 

Silence reigns thick over the comms as James passes Kellan, standing guard just outside the open door.  Reese looks back at him, her composure breaking.  “He’s right here,” she says softly.

 

Adelaide is at Q’s left hand, her gun trained on a woman folded to the floor, her expression unreadable.  Reese steps to the side as James approaches, his blue gaze fixed on Q’s mop of curls, his chin bowed down toward his chest.  He can see the rest of it in his periphery—Q, crucified, his almost naked body dripping blood onto the floor, cuts small and big mapped across his skin—but focuses instead on his ragged breaths, the way a few of his exhales shake apart with agonized noises.

 

He stops in front of him, lifting a hand to wrap gently around his jaw.  Q flinches, tries to jerk away from him, but James sweeps a thumb out over his cheek.  “It’s me,” he says.

 

Q inhales, and doesn’t let it out, instead uses the last dredges of his energy to look up, and tries desperately to withhold the flood.  “You’re safe,” James says.

 

“My hands,” he whispers, “Please.”

 

James doesn’t look away from him, but gestures in Reese’s general direction.  He can see her motion to Adelaide, and they both approach a hand as Kellan steps inside, watching the woman.

 

“It’s going to hurt,” James says, “Tell me how I can help.”

 

Q tips his face into James’s hand, and closes his eyes.  “Take me home,” he whispers.  He flinches badly when Adelaide and Reese take hold of his wrists in one hand each.  “James,” he begs.

 

“How about a honeymoon?” James says quickly.  He doesn’t care who is listening, who might hear.  He doesn’t care about anything but the broken and breaking man in front of him.  “Somewhere warm,” he says, “Somewhere with thunder that sounds like drums, and rain that isn’t cold.  Somewhere with endless trees, and snakes that would eat you whole, and—”

 

Q lets out a sound like glass breaking.

 

Adelaide and Reese move slowly with the ropes around his wrists as James steps up to wind an arm around him, holding him.  Q’s head lolls onto his shoulder, his hot forehead resting against his jaw.  “Costa Rica.”  James isn’t ready for him to speak again, and doesn’t bother stopping himself when he tips his head toward Q and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.

 

“Beaches and books and booze,” he says.  Q hums, the sound running down James’s spine and wrapping around his cold bones.  “Are you ready?” he asks.

 

Q shifts his head until it taps back against the steel beam behind him.  His eyes are closed, and James notices, miraculously, that he still has his glasses.  Adelaide and Reese let down his arms, and Q’s legs give out from underneath him.  James holds onto him, letting Adelaide tuck his left arm in against him before James starts to shift his hold when Q gets his feet back under him and says, “Mm, no.  I can walk.”

 

“Q,” James tries.

 

“Not happening,” Q says.

 

James exhales loudly, but instead of arguing, loops an arm around Q’s waist as Q leans into him, holding his hands against his chest.  He’s shaking all over, and James starts looking around for something to wrap him up in when Kellan shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it over.

 

“Thank you,” Q mumbles as James tucks it around his shoulders.  “Oh,” he adds, looking down at himself, “When the hell did that happen?”  He shakes his head at his lack of clothes, and looks back up.  “Well,” he says impatiently, “Why are we all standing around?  Have you ever heard of lingchi?  I’d like to fucking leave, please.  _Now_.  And don’t kill her,” he adds, gaze shifting to Nyarai.  “Or any of them, if it can be helped.  We need to bring them back to London.  For information,” he says as Kellan adjusts his aim to point at one of Nyarai’s knees, “Not revenge.”

 

“Quartermaster’s orders,” Kellan says, and kicks Nyarai, “Get up.”

 

She unfolds slowly, glaring at Q as she gets to her feet.  Somehow, Q manages to lift one of his hands in a mock wave, though his fingers are curled in toward his bleeding palms.  She spits at the ground near his bare feet.  “I did tell you this would end one of two ways,” he says, “It’s not my fault you chose the wrong ending.”

 

“002’s just arrived with medevac,” R says.

 

“Medical’s here,” James says to Q, “Are you sure you can walk?”

 

“For now,” he says.  James nods, and helps him walk away.

 

In the end, medical reaches them before they make it out of the building.  They get Q on a stretcher, wrap him up in insulated blankets, and lead the way out.  By the time they get settled in the plane, he’s unconscious.  James is alarmed until one of the techs lets him know it was at Q’s request.

 

Everyone straps in until they’re in the air, and then the four people Charles brought along get to work.  Adelaide and Kellan call in to update M, Ebele and Thema go to check on the prisoners they have handcuffed to the walls, and Luis begins remote detonation procedures.  James sits back in his seat, watching Q from a distance.  He listens to the quick diagnoses as the one doctor among them moves from head to toe.

 

“Right wrist broken.  It’s been reset and splinted already.  Leave it for now.  Most of these are shallow.  Start cleaning and stitching these,” he gestures to two long slices along Q’s right ribs.  “Well.”  He sets Q’s left hand in his own, frowning at the hole there.  “He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sustain major nerve damage,” he says.  “Hands are top priority.  Remove these,” he touches Q’s knee lightly, “Hopefully, it hasn’t infected yet.”  He continues down to his feet, and then steps back, letting the other three move around with ease.

 

The doctor is still for a moment longer, and then turns.  “Do any of you have any relation to this young man?” he asks James, “Does he have a name?”

 

He sees, out of the corner of his eye, Bradley look up at him.  James holds the doctor’s gaze for a second longer than he really needs to before he says, “I’m his husband.  His name is Quentin.”

 

Kellan drops into the seat next to him with a snort.  “He’ll kill you for that,” he says.

 

“Medications?” the doctor asks.  When James shakes his head, he continues, “Anything noteworthy?”

 

“He’s broken that wrist before,” James says, “Doesn’t smoke.  No allergies.  Right shoulder has been dislocated several times.  And those hands are property of England’s Secret Service, so.”

 

“Noted,” he says, “Age?”

 

“33.”

 

“Thank you.”  The doctor turns back to Q, and Kellan turns to James.

 

“Husband, huh,” he says.

 

James closes his eyes, and lets it all fade away.

 

——

 

They make it back to Halley before nightfall.  They really aren’t equipped to deal with the situation at hand, but they do what they can to prepare Q for travel the next day.

  
When he wakes, in the dead of night, James is there to talk him down out of a panic while they wait for the doctor to arrive.  They’ve stitched up all of his lingchi wounds, redone the splint on his wrist and the stitching on his knee, and have wrapped his hands in gauze.  Q stubbornly starts flexing his fingers and making fists, even as the nail wounds in his hands burn with a pain so bright that tears fall unchecked down his face, but he can move each finger and can feel the pain acutely, so he considers it a win.

 

The doctor tries to tell him that his best option is to stop at the nearest country for surgery, and Q laughs bitterly.  He’s going home, with or without them.

 

At dawn, they’re back on the plane they took from London.  Q point blank refuses to be bedridden for the flight, and even demands to remain coherent.  Without the use of his hands, he starts dictating to his agents, all of whom carry out his wishes without hesitation.  James almost calls them lap dogs, but then Q glances at him, anxiety in every corner of his expression, and he sets a hand over his lower back, drops a kiss to the nape of his neck, and whispers, “You’re okay.”

 

Eventually, Q folds into a wide, comfortable seat near the front of the plane, an IV in his arm, and low levels of morphine dripping through a bag strung up over the window next to him.  They tried to convince him to take a regular dose, but he was steadfast.  His mind was the only thing he had without his hands, and he’d rather be in some pain than lose his faculties, even only for the flight.

 

They conference in M and Eve on the way back.  Q surprises no one when he retells the whole bloody story without any emotion in his voice, but James, sitting next to him, feels the occasional tremor that wracks through him.  M asks if he’d like to speak to his brothers, and Q politely declines.  That is not a conversation he can handle right now.

 

He doesn’t speak for the remainder of the flight.  He does, however, shift in his seat until his back is to the wall, eases his legs into James’s lap, and sets his hands down on his thighs, turning them over so his gauze-laden palms face the sky.  James takes them one at a time and squeezes the pad of each finger, moving onto the next one only when Q nods.  When he finishes with one hand, he turns it over to kiss the backs of his knuckles, and then sets it down to start on the next one.  When he’s finished, Q tips his head back, closes his eyes, and tries not to cry.  James ruins his efforts by easing off his slippers and massaging his feet.

 

They don’t return to MI-6 when they arrive in London.  From the airport, they take a government car to the hospital while the rest of the agents return for debriefing.  Adrienne is already back on home soil waiting for them, and she lifts a hand in a wave just before Q gets into the car.  He nods in response, tries not to cry on the way to the hospital, and ends up with his face burrowed against James’s chest, his shoulders shaking.  James wraps careful arms around him, and holds on.

 

He’s under for nine hours.

 

After four, Q’s brothers are released from MI-6.  All they know is that the God of Small Things’ leader started giving up names, and the threat was considered neutralized.  They arrive at the hospital with their families in tow, and James is finally introduced to everyone.

 

After six, Eve shows up bearing fish and chips, water instead of alcohol, and a change of clothes.  James gratefully shucks off his blood-stained, sweaty clothes, tosses them in the rubbish, and steps into a pair of clean, faded jeans, a soft, forest green shirt, and the boat shoes that Q loves to hate.  They eat their takeaway alone in the waiting room.  Q’s brothers have gone home with assurances that James will call when he’s out of surgery.

 

After eight, Eve disappears in search of tea, and comes back thirty minutes later with the news that Nyarai is dead via cyanide capsule.  Thus far, every name she’s given up has turned up dead, as well, and they weren’t fast enough to save the others that they brought in with her.

 

After nine, James stops pacing when the doors open, and something like relief overwhelms all his other senses when they’re told Q is okay.  They won’t let Eve back, no matter what badge she shows or what government clearance she has, and James promises to text her details once he’s seen him.

 

He thinks about asking Q to marry him, thinks about how he’d be right next to Eve right now if he hadn’t taken the plunge.

 

In his room, Q is still asleep.  James is told that he’ll wake up in a few hours, but that, in the meantime, he’s encouraged to talk to him, to help him find his way back.  They leave him alone with Q, with his hands wrapped up, with the starchy hospital gown hiding most of his wounds, with his glasses on the bedside table and the bags under his eyes deep and dark.

 

James texts Eve before he’s even sat down, asks for three things, lets her know that he’s okay but asleep, and then pockets his phone.  He leans forward, presses a firm kiss to the spot between Q’s eyebrows, and then leans his forehead there, just breathing.

 

Later, James wakes to find that six hours have passed.  He doesn’t remember falling asleep, only remembers pulling  up a chair next to Q’s bed, ready to keep vigil, and then this, coming to like there’s ice in his veins.  He reaches for his gun before remembering he left it with Eve, is nearly consumed by a swell of fear, and then blinks, once, and returns.

 

Connor is sitting on Q’s other side, tapping away on his mobile.  Desmond is pacing across the front of the room, from window to door, on the phone with who James assumes is Shae, based on the empty chair next to Connor.  “Morning, sunshine,” Connor says without looking up.

 

James checks the time—3PM—and eases up out of his chair, stretching.  He scans the room quickly, checking for anything amiss, before settling on Q.  He’s still wearing the hospital gown, though a small stack of folded clothes is sitting beneath a book on the bedside table, his glasses resting on top.  “Has he woken up?” he asks.

 

“A couple hours ago,” Connor says, finally putting away his phone, “He said to let you sleep.  James.”  He waits until James looks at him before he continues, “Thank you.”

 

James looks away, and back at Q.  He can feel, beneath the walls and the fire and the anger, something like a sigh settle across his body.  He’s home again.

 

“If he wakes, let him know I won’t be gone long,” James says.

 

Desmond spins to face him at these words, cutting Shae off as he says, “Your boss said that they were all dead.  Where are you going?”

  
James crosses to the end of the bed, steps around Desmond, and makes for the door.  “James,” Connor says.

  
“Not more than an hour,” he says before he’s gone.

 

He stops at the flat first, to check on the cats and to steal Q’s Ares III mission sweatshirt.  There’s absolutely no need for it, but his edges feel unsteady, so he shrugs it on, buries his nose in the shoulder, and inhales.  “Fight me,” he says to Joyce, who is staring at him unblinkingly.  She swishes her tail, and keeps staring until he turns to the door.  Only then does she jump down from the island and walk, slowly and with purpose, toward their bedroom.

 

He stops at Q’s favorite café second, ordering a truly absurd amount of food and several coffees.  The gods are smiling down at him because he doesn’t spill any of it on the tube, and then he’s back out under the bright, summer London sky.  The Martin is still in MI-6’s garage, and he stops there only to drop off the food and coffees.

 

James stops at M’s office last.

 

Eve, surprisingly, is at her desk when he walks in.  She looks up, ready to tell him that M’s busy, when she sees who it is, and her mouth resolves itself into a thin, sad line.  She tugs open a drawer, retrieves his Walther, and sets it down on the desk.  “This is it, then?” she asks.

 

James doesn’t respond.  Instead, he takes the gun, eases open the door to M’s office, steps just inside, and waits for him to look up.  He’s on the phone when he does, but he nods when he sees James, who walks away from the door and sits in one of the comfortable, leather chairs across from his desk.

 

“Yes, our quartermaster is safe and sound,” M says, “Back on English soil and likely causing mayhem in the hospital.”  M taps a pen against his desk.  “No, no, he’s quite alright,” he continues, “He sustained some injuries, and we’re still waiting to hear back from his surgeon, but I suspect he’ll make a full recovery.”  M sets the pen down, and leans back in his chair.  “I will pass on your gratitude to our agents, Prime Minister.  Thank you for your concern.”  When he hangs up, James doesn’t speak.  M regards him for a long moment before he asks, “What now?”

 

James straightens, stretching a hand forward to place his Walther down on the desk between them.  He stretches farther to pick up the file on M’s desk, and leans back in his seat with it, tipping it open.  His Berlin mission is being reassigned to 004.

 

“That,” James says as he turns a page, “is entirely up to you.”

 

M exhales a sound that might be a laugh, folds his hands together, and says, “Not to inflate your ego further, but your knowledge and skillset would be highly sought after as a trainer.”

 

James closes the file, sets it back on his desk, and stands.  “I’ll be in touch,” he says, tapping his desk once before he leaves.

 

Hours later, after it all—after James returns a hero with food and coffee, and spends a good two hours just hanging out with Q’s brothers when all he really wants to do is uncover what book Eve brought; after Q’s doctor comes in to check on his hands and informs them that he is incredibly lucky to have survived crucifixion with very little damage, and James releases his brothers with promises that he’ll call if anything; after he closes the blinds on the sun, shucks off Q’s blankets, and carefully unravels him from the hospital gown, dressing him again in soft, flannel pajama pants and his favorite grey sweater; after he finally unearths the book, and spends one, long moment utterly baffled by the fact that Eve brought _Cloud Atlas_ before opening to where his last dog-eared page is and letting the words wrap around them—after it all, James is sitting with his legs folded beneath him, the book open in his lap but closed around his thumb, his head tipped back against the chair, when Q wakes up.

 

James watches awareness flicker across his face slowly, watches his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he tries to open his eyes, and watches, with a lazy smile and tired eyes, when Q’s gaze focuses on the ceiling and then turns to him.  He inhales deeply, his mouth turning up at the corners as he does.

 

“Don’t ever do that again,” James says.

 

“Twice,” Q says, “I’ve been kidnapped _twice_.  This is bullshit.”

 

“You’ve been shot twice, too.  I never thought I’d see the day,” James says, “And lingchi.  That’s impressive.”

 

“0 out of 10, would not recommend,” Q says.

 

James laughs softly before he lifts his head, unfolding up out of his chair to sit on the edge of Q’s bed.  He sets the book down on the bedside table before he lifts a hand to brush the curls back from Q’s forehead.  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

 

Q hums.  “There was something about Costa Rica,” he says.

 

James laughs again, brighter this time, and leans down to kiss him.  Q’s warmth envelops him, slides right beneath his skin and settles in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that tomorrow is literally Friday, and there's absolutely no need for me to post this early, but it's been a long, exhausting week, and I don't feel like waiting a whole other week to wrap this up, so hi, here's section b of part two, and you should expect part three to be up sooner than next Friday. I'm anxious for you guys to see how this all comes to a close, particularly because there will not be a third fic in this verse, so I'm eager to get it up. Maybe Monday? Soon.
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to leave your thoughts!


	4. après

_If it gets hold of me,_

_Please be the saint to save me._

A bird calls to the rising sun.  Slow, lazy heat has been crawling over Q’s body for an hour or two, but it’s the sudden birdsong that rouses him up out of the edge of slumber and into wakefulness.  He rolls over onto his front, right arm stretching out.  The bed beside him is empty, but the sheets are still warm, and he thinks he felt James leave only a few minutes ago.  He tries to convince himself to get up, but the heat of the sun feels so wonderful.  Q closes his eyes, burrowing against the soft pillow, and inhales the scent of James.  It’s different here—there’s still the underlying current of gunpowder and fire, but it’s beneath a heavy layer of sandalwood, warm rain, and sea salt.

 

Without warning, the duvet starts to slide off him, and Q groans, tucking his arms up under the pillow.  “You’re insatiable,” he mumbles into the pillow.

 

He hears the soft rustle of the duvet hit the floor, and then the shift of the bed near his feet as James climbs back on.  His mouth brushes over Q’s calf before he drops a kiss just inside his knee.  He fists a hand in the sheets at the smooth glide of James’s jaw over the back of his thigh.  “And you are?” he rumbles, his breath rushing warm over Q’s bare skin.

 

“Satiable is so not—wait.  That might be a word.  Satiable?  I don’t like it,” Q says, all in a rush, and a bit incoherently.  James’s mouth is wandering across the back of his thigh, light, teasing kisses that make his insides twist into knots.  He pauses to lick along the edge of Q’s hip, and then bites the small of his back gently.

 

“Goddamn you,” Q mutters as his shoulders start to melt into the bed.

 

“You’re not very convincing,” James says as he starts to wander up toward his ribs.  His mouth is careful here, his canines tucked away and his intention reverence.  He follows the line of scars along Q’s ribs, two raised lines that wrap around his side in a curve, stopping just below his armpit, whispers something he can’t understand against his skin, and then shifts, knees sliding farther up the bed.

 

His cock, warm and heavy, rests against the swell of Q’s ass as his mouth travels up his back, pausing at random to bite, sharp and quick, or to lick over the ridges of his spine.

 

Q unravels his hands, presses palms flat to the bed beneath the pillows.  He tips his head to the side when James reaches his shoulder.  He opens his eyes, and he’s close enough that he can see the bright blue of his eyes when James bites the back of his shoulder.  Q lifts an eyebrow, and James releases his shoulder with a grin, leaning forward to kiss his jaw.

 

“Good morning,” he presses the words into his skin, following the line of his jaw up to his ear.  He kisses just behind it, and then drags his teeth over the edge of it.

 

“Tease,” Q accuses.

 

“Is there something you want?” James asks as he moves to press a kiss to the back of his neck, leaving a path of heat as he kisses along to his other shoulder.

 

Q feels his weight shift to the left a little as his forearm presses into the bed, and then he’s sliding his right hand up along Q’s arm to wrap around his hand.  With their fingers tangled together, James reaches around to rub his thumb over his palm.  Q closes his eyes, and lets himself be lost in the physical sensation of James, who has dropped his forehead to Q’s shoulder, his breaths fanning out warm and steady across his back.  His thumb finds the small scar there, and passes over it softly, barely a touch.

 

Q knows what he’s doing, what he has been doing for the past few months.  He maps out the war on his body with his mouth and his hands, and it always makes Q come a little undone at the edges, like the flood inside is waiting to be released again.

 

He remembers doing the same thing to James when they first started this thing, remembers kissing his scars and his bullet wounds, tracing the battles he’d fought, showing kindness to every second of war.

 

“How do they feel?” James whispers against his shoulder.

 

Q lifts the shoulder he’s not leaning on, and James goes, easing off of him and onto his side.  Q pushes up onto his elbows, grabs his glasses from the bedside table, and fits them on before turning over onto his back.  He lifts his hands above him, and frowns at the small, circular patches of raised skin on his palms.

 

He never thought that he’d look like this, with scars wrapping around his ribs, bullet wounds in his bicep and the inside of his knee, crucifixion marks in his hands, and some of the medium-sized lingchi marks still lingering in fading scars along his torso.

 

“Better,” he says, curling his hands into fists and turning them over to look at the matching marks on the back.  He turns them again as he stretches his fingers, and winces a little at the end.  “Not working helps,” he adds begrudgingly.

 

James doesn’t bother hiding his smile.  It’s soft, regardless, though there’s a hint of something else at the corner of it a breath before his knuckles start to run up and down the length of Q’s cock.  “And your knee?” James asks, his voice low and a little rough.

 

“ _Honestly_ ,” Q grumbles before he shoves James over onto his back and climbs up on top of him.  When he settles, James’s hands running up his thighs, his knee lets him know that this is not going to be a position he can hold for long.  It’s worth it for now, though, to look down at James staring up at him, his eyes dark and full of wanting.  “If you’re going to wake me up for sex,” Q says as he leans down, hands braced on either side of James’s head, “I expect—”

 

Q can’t help it—he laughs when James throws him back onto the bed, an open, easy laugh that James reciprocates in his wicked grin as he hooks an elbow under one of Q’s knees, and draws it up with him as he leans down to kiss him.  “Shut up,” he presses the words into his mouth.

 

“I do love a challenge,” Q says, and the words dissolve into a groan when James bites at his bottom lip.

 

They move slowly in the warming day, a tangle of limbs and breaths and cracking sounds.  James sucks a bruise in between Q’s scars on his ribs that make his toes curl.  He digs blunt nails in against James’s shoulder, breaking the skin with half moon indents.  Q wraps a hand around the back of James’s neck to pull him close, and kisses him with every ounce of heat and energy thrumming through his body.  When he draws back, James’s mouth is red and wet, and Q bites him before he can lean away again.  In retribution, James bites the back of Q’s jaw, and grins when Q shouts, back bowing off the bed.

 

When, eventually, Q comes, it’s with James’s heart stammering under his hand, one leg hooked over his shoulder, and James’s breath rushing across his collarbone.  He feels James follow him in the groan that shakes through to his core, in the hand that tightens around his hip, in the press of his forehead against his shoulder.

 

They stay together like that, no end and no beginning, until James’s mouth glances off his jaw, a passing kiss, and slowly leans away from him, easing his leg back down onto the bed.  “Shower?” he asks as he runs a hand along Q’s side.

 

Q starts to answer, and then James is gone, his body sliding away from Q’s.  He closes his eyes, and breathes through the loss.  James kisses the inside of his knee, the honeycomb scattered across his thigh, his hip before Q opens his eyes again.  “And then food,” he says.

 

James smiles at him, a lazy, open curve of his mouth.  “Crêpes,” James says, and Q laughs, lifting one of his feet to push at him.

 

They finally leave the bed to shower together, which is different here, too.  It’s slower, calmer almost.  James touches him everywhere, a hand curled around his elbow, fingers spreading across his back, his mouth on a shoulder, knuckles down his spine, never really wanting to let distance grow between them.  Q always ends up a tightly wound ball of frustration and need, always ends up pressing James against the wall and touching him back until they’re both running short on breath and space.

 

This morning, James is still in there when Q finally abandons him, grabbing a towel to scrub over his hair.  There’s no point drying off—by the time he reaches the bedroom again, the heat has already sucked the moisture from his skin.  And even if it hadn’t, it’s their last day here in paradise, and he’s going to spend as much time in the pool as he can.  Tomorrow, they return to London just in time for the air to start smelling like apples and spice again.

 

After he was cleared to leave the hospital, Q took a leave of absence from MI-6 and spent three weeks healing at home.  They were some of the most difficult weeks of his life, but James had been a steadfast, unmovable presence that kept him grounded, and reminded him that everything was going to be okay, one way or another.

 

His return to work was a quiet affair.  He’d started working remotely during his last week at home, and asked R to speak to the branch before Monday so that he didn’t have to walk into a repeat of the last time he’d survived a kidnapping.  Luckily, other than a fierce hug from both R and Nala, Q’s not subjected to much else.  That is, until the double oh’s start wandering down to the branch.  They’re not outright with it, but Luis and the twins discreetly ask if he’s okay, Adrienne is suddenly more respectful than she’s ever been, and Kellan grins at him when he lifts his hand for a fist bump.  Q sighs miserably at him, but taps their knuckles together.  “You’re a legend, Q,” Kellan says, so Q sends him out with a prototype.

 

There are, however, always exceptions.  Adelaide brings him a coffee and a pastry from his favorite café one morning, and perches on the edge of his desk while he eats the pastry, picking at her own as they talk about nothing at all.  Charles shows up with a plant after a mission, just a small chrysanthemum bush, and makes Q promise to stop being cool enough to kidnap.

 

James goes back to work a week after him.  M assigns him a fellow trainer to show him the ropes, and doesn’t immediately regret that.  Though he’s not the warmest person at work, he’s tamer than Q has ever seen him.  Even Eve comments on it one afternoon, when she’s pulled Q away from his laptop with Vietnamese.  “He actually looks like he’s enjoying himself sometimes,” she says.

 

Q doesn’t comment.  He _is_ enjoying himself, though Q won’t spoil that secret.  He talks about the work and the new recruits at home enthusiastically, and he sounds so honest that Q doesn’t doubt him for a second.

 

His hands bother him on and off.  Some days, it’s like nothing has happened.  He guides his agents flawlessly through missions, he codes with R, he works on the cars, and he continues to build newer, and better, weapons.  Some days, it’s physical; others, it’s mental.  On the physical days, when his wrists ache, his fingers tingle with impending numbness, and the scars burn, Q wraps his hands around his tea mug and reviews the unending mountain of paperwork always sitting in his inbox.  Most of their forms are digital now, and all it takes is the tap of a key to sign his name.  Sometimes, R tries to be discreet and send a message up to Eve, but Q always knows he’s done it when she shows up with food or gossip to distract him.

 

On the mental days, Q locks himself in his office and whispers the numbers of Pi, occasionally shaking out his hands—they don’t hurt, but his mind likes to play tricks on him and try to tell him that they do, that there are still nails embedded in his palms.  When that doesn’t work, he retreats to the training and testing area.  Some days, all he needs is to see James to know that he’s in London, that he’s safe, that he’s _home_.  Some days, it feels like there are nails everywhere, and he never makes it to James, instead tipping into whatever empty room he can find, his breaths trying to choke him until James is there in front of him, breathing with him.

 

By the time September rolls around, Q still has bad days, but they are fewer and farther between.  He welcomes the cooling weather in the form of truly heinous cardigans and a trip to Costa Rica.  It happens before Q even realizes what’s going on.  He’s still working around 8PM when James slips into Q branch, makes it all the way past R before anyone realizes he’s there, and asks, “What are you doing next week?”

 

Q is slow to look up.  R actually jumps at his voice, gaze whipping over to him.  “How the hell do you _do that_?” he demands.

 

“He’s like a mountain lion,” Arjuna whispers.

 

“No, Bagheera,” Roland says.

 

This lifts Q’s gaze from his laptop.  “What?” he says, looking around James at Roland, “Seriously?  Not Kaa?”

 

“Oh, der,” Arjuna says.

 

“Why, what did you do?” Q asks, eyes shifting to focus on James.  They’re a steely blue grey today, like the cloudy sky they woke up to.

 

Four days later, they were on a plane bound for a resort in Costa Rica where they would be staying in a private villa for seven days in total.  And though they’d spent a fair amount of time in bed, they’d also explored much of the island, as well.  Their flight tomorrow leaves at the awful hour of 4AM, and is a grand total of fifteen hours, but Q’s eager to get home.

 

James finds him tucked into the corner of the pool, a spread of fruit laid out next to him, arms draped over the edge, and staring out at the forest beyond.  The trees yawn open to reveal gorgeous blue water and the mountains.  He joins him, rolling his eyes when Q makes a comment about his neon green swim shorts.  “Yours have pelicans on them,” James says as he grabs a piece of watermelon.

 

“They’re not just pelicans,” Q defends, “I think I spotted a flamingo on the back.”

 

James stretches his arms out along the stone floor, eating a piece of pineapple next.  Q doesn’t turn to face him right away, instead continuing to watch the world pass.  James is content with the view—Q’s sun-kissed skin creating a map of freckles on his back, the shift of muscles along his shoulders whenever he reaches for a piece of fruit, and his dark curls, lightly tousled from the wind.  He looks good like this, relaxed and without impending doom on the horizon.  James knows that he’s ready to go back, though, can even feel a small itch beneath his skin to start moving again, as well.

 

Q releases the wall, turns, and puts his back to it.  He plucks a strawberry from the spread, and bites into it as his eyes flick over James slowly, taking him in.

 

“That’s just—” James breaks off as Q sets the strawberry stem back down, “—rude.”

 

Q licks his lips.  “So,” he says, “What’s this about a dog?”

 

“A dog,” James says, every other thought crashing to a halt.  “I’d like to point out that _you’re_ the one bringing this up, not me.”

 

“Noted,” Q says, rolling his shoulders back so he can drop his elbows onto the edge of the pool.  “What kind?” he asks.

 

“Puppy?” James asks.

 

Q shrugs.  “With a Shakespearean name.”

 

James holds his gaze for a long moment before he pushes away from the wall, crossing the pool in an easy breaststroke.  Q allows the barest hint of a smile as James braces his arms on either side of him, caging him in.  He pauses a few inches away from Q, his blue eyes cool and slow as they drag over his face, lingering on his mouth before they level with Q’s.  “Sometimes, I wonder,” he says.

 

Q’s smile widens, and he lifts one of his hands to brush his knuckles along James’s jaw before he folds his hand around it, thumb sweeping out over his cheek.  “Sometimes, I think all of my lives have led me to this,” Q says softly.

 

“To the apex of your being?” James teases even though he knows what Q means because somewhere deep inside of him, somewhere dark and untouched, wants to hear him say it.

 

Q leans forward into his space, other arm sliding off the edge of the pool.  James wraps an arm around his back, hand folding over his ribs, fingers spreading with the rise and fall of his breaths.  Q pauses a breath away, his smile faded into something small.  He’s so close, James can already taste him, and he inhales, deep into his lungs, holding onto this moment.

 

“To you,” Q says finally, and still doesn’t kiss him.

 

James has no words, seems to be losing his words more and more with Q, and so succumbs to the only thing he has left—he pours all of his loving into the way he kisses Q, slow and long and full of fire, and if the light in Q’s eyes is anything to judge by when he pulls back, then he thinks Q hears it all.

 

——

 

“Have you ever been to Thailand?” Q asks two weeks later.  He’s in the lab, cardigan tossed carelessly into a heap some feet away, and bits of an engine scattered around him.  There was a bit of code bothering him that he needed to walk away from, so he’d come down here to needlessly take apart the engine, clean it, and start putting it back together again.  It’s really one of the more ostentatious things he’s ever done, but it’s nice to break something entirely apart and slowly watch it come back together again.

 

“Stupid question, I realize,” Q says, “Clarification: not on a mission.”

 

“Is this you hinting that you’d like to go on holiday to Thailand?” James asks.

 

“I was getting there.  Being polite first,” Q says, “What was I thinking, not being direct with a double oh.  Oh!  That reminds me.  First, yes, someday, eventually.  _Mother_ —”

 

“Computer fighting back?” James asks before his voice changes, takes on a note of derision, “Oh, honestly.  Get up, and run a mile.  That was the worst push-up I’ve ever seen.  Think on your form while you’re running.”

 

The muttered retort is loud enough that even Q hears it, “Right.  Because you could do so much better.”

 

Q snorts before he leans back on his hands, admiring his work.  “Pardon?” James says.  His voice is low and even, and it sends a thrill down Q’s spine.

 

“Just think it’s a bit insulting to send a _retired_ agent to train us.  Hardly seems appropriate.”

 

Q stands up as he waits for James to prove the recruit wrong, meandering over to the side of the bay where the switches for the car lift are sitting.  He starts lowering the car back down toward the engine when James says, “That mile isn’t going to run itself.”

 

“Well,” Q says.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“I’m rather impressed with you right now.”

 

“Where in Thailand?” James asks instead of taking the bait.

 

“Somewhere jungly.”

 

James’s exhale hides his laugh.  “Right.  Jungly.  Shall we just take the bare necessities?”

 

“Perhaps for—” Q breaks off as his mobile dings, “Hold, please.”

 

“I was thinking of Australia for their first phase of survival training,” James says as Q opens up an email from M.

 

“Saying it while I’m distracted doesn’t mean I won’t process it,” Q says as he reads through it.

 

“A for effort?” James asks.

 

“C, perhaps.  I’ve got to jet.  Double oh’s to outfit.”

 

“That reminds you?” James says, and Q is momentarily dumbfounded until he starts retracing his steps in their conversation.

 

“Yes,” he says as he twists out of the new Valerian t-shirt James found him in Costa Rica, of all places.  “M mentioned filling the 006 and 007 monikers.”

 

“For shame,” James says, and sounds like he means it.

 

“Indeed,” Q agrees as he starts buttoning up his maroon shirt, “I’m trying to imagine not flirting with the new 007.”

 

“Impossible.  That looks like a jog, not a run!”

 

He’d tried to piss the world off this morning with a plum-colored cardigan until James threatened to burn it while on him, and so he ends up tugging a dark grey cardigan on over his shirt before he heads for the door.  Q asks, “Weekend in New Zealand?”

 

“Don’t even try fibbing your way around that one,” James says easily, “You just want to visit Hobbiton.”

 

“Well, _obviously_.  Afternoon, 005,” he adds as he steps out of the lab to find Reese just stepping off the lift.

 

“Afternoon, Q,” she says, smiling widely, “How are you?”

 

“Dandy,” James says, his voice full of mirth.

 

Q forces back a grin.  “Spectacular,” he says, “Taiwan, then?”

 

“ _Oh_ ,” James says softly, “That’s a story for later.”

 

“I heard Bond once demolished an Aston Martin there,” Reese says, “In rather splendid fashion.”

 

“Fire _and_ blood,” James says.

 

“I’m sure I’ll hear it later,” Q says, “Shall we?”  As he heads down the hall of his branch, Reese at his side, he listens to James delivering quick orders to his recruits.  Only when he’s inside, and Reese has paused to chat with R, does he says, “Hopefully, this code will stop being heinous after 005 and 003 have been outfitted.”

 

“I should be done here at a relatively normal time,” James says, “Greek?”

 

“No feta,” Q says, “Lots of tomatoes.”

 

“As you wish.”

 

“I’ll most likely kill you in the morning,” Q says, and closes their line to the sound of James’s laugh.

 

——

 

Q turns thirty-four in October, and it’s quite the day.  When he wakes, it’s without the usual hassle of an alarm that he has to flail around blindly for and almost always end up throwing to the floor.  Instead, the absolutely heavenly smell of strawberries and cream starts to curl through the bedroom, and Q slides a hand along the bed to check the other side.  His hand collides with Oscar, tipped over onto his back, his paws sticking in the air, and fast asleep.

 

Q smiles, sleepily shifting across the bed until he can kiss Oscar’s belly.  “You’re a dope,” he says, and kisses his belly again before he pushes up onto his forearms, looking over his shoulder.  Joyce is tucked inside one of his knees, purring contentedly.  He doesn’t want to move, but there’s a warm undercurrent of bergamot starting to mix with the strawberries and cream, so Q carefully slides his leg out from under her.  She doesn’t move other than to twitch an ear at him, so Q considers it a success.

  
Armed with his glasses, his discarded shirt on the floor, and Keats, whom he nearly trips over and ends up burying his face against his head once he picks him up, Q wanders out into the flat proper to find James in the kitchen.  He’s wearing nothing but a pair of sinfully tight briefs and a floral apron that Eve bought as a gag gift, and that James has taken to wearing in earnest.

 

His hair is a bit mussed from sleep, and in need of a trim, though Q likes it at this length, likes to run his fingers through it.  His back is a network of scar tissue and muscle, and as Q drops into a seat at the island, he can’t help but glance down at his own hands.  The wounds there have healed over nicely, though he’ll carry the small, circular scars on the front and back of his hands forever.

 

He’s quickly distracted by Keats, who yawns widely up at him.  “Oh, well good morning, handsome,” he says sweetly, “And how was your rest?  You,” he adds as James sets a mug down in front of him, “are currently my favorite dead white man in this flat.”

 

“Hold that thought,” James says, indicating the mug with a spatula covered in batter before he turns back to the stove.

 

Q lifts the mug—his second favorite one, with _there their they’re_ in black lettering—sniffing it before he sips.  Immediately, he groans, and he knows it sounds nearly identical to the noises he’d made last night, but good grief, it’s that good.  “What did you put in here?” he asks as Keats starts to turn in his arms.

 

Q lets him down as James says, “Vanilla.  And a pinch of cinnamon.”

 

“Well, bravo,” Q says, wrapping both hands around it, “What are you cooking?”

 

“Surprise,” James says.  He turns away from the stove again, pointing his batter spatula to Q’s left.  “Happy birthday,” he says, blue eyes darting to Q and then away.

 

“Oh,” Q says, looking to his left.  There’s a small, wrapped package next to him.  It’s just brown paper with a string wrapped around it, but other than the fact that he’d forgotten it was his birthday, he certainly hadn’t expected James to get him something.  He reaches for the package, smiling softly when the weight and shape of it lets him know exactly what it is.  “Thank you,” he says as he undoes the string.  Q peels back the wrapping, smile quirking up higher on one side as he finds _The Bone Clocks_ sitting inside.

 

Before he can say anything, James sets a plate down in front of him—with an honest to god crêpe on it.

 

Q’s smile turns into an all-out beam as he looks up at him.  “Open it,” James says, nodding at the book.

 

Q looks back down, tips open the front cover, and pages through to the title page.  “What,” he exhales.

 

There, scrawled in neat, looping handwriting are the words: _Q—here’s to another year around the sun._ Beneath it is a signature he doesn’t recognize, but can read easily.

 

“Is this— _how_?” he demands, looking up.

 

“Called in a favor,” James says, “I didn’t get to meet him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“This is—thank you, James,” Q says, shaking his head in disbelief and looking back down at the signature.

 

“Of course,” James says.  When Q looks back up at him, he’s returned to the stove, though it’s only a moment before he sits down opposite him, another crêpe on his plate.

 

After a delicious breakfast, James drives them to work in the Martin while Q fields several texts from his brothers about where they’re going that night to celebrate.  They settle on a seafood restaurant Q’s been eyeing on the other side of London, and then it’s into MI-6 for a full day.

 

Work is as normal as normal gets with the double oh’s.  002 is in Kenya, and Q’s found him something truly marvelous for a post-mission adventure that he can’t wait to tell him about.  0011 is on a beach in Cuba when he checks in, liquoring up his mark, who keeps laughing genuinely at 0011’s terrible jokes.  008 is on vacation in Aruba with her family, though she calls in to wish him a happy birthday, and he spends a good twenty minutes chatting with her.  009 is in the middle of a rather bloody skirmish in Kuwait around lunchtime when Q takes him off R’s hands.

 

He’s just wrapping that up around 1PM when Nala appears in front of his desk, in the brightest and most cheerful golden yellow dress he’s ever seen, and asks, “Can you spare some time for lunch?”

 

Q looks up, and realizes he has no choice.  Everyone in the branch has already organized an Indian style lunch, pillows serving as seats in a circle, with endless little white Chinese containers in the middle.  They don’t sing to him, but they do waste an hour just talking and eating.

 

Later, right around when he’s getting ready to leave, 0011 calls in with intel, and though Q is eager to look at what he’s retrieved, James shows up to collect, and he not only leaves it for later, but doesn’t take it with him.  R cheers when this happens, so Q delivers a clever threat, and laughs when R just gapes at him.

 

Dinner is loud and fun, full of Q and Desmond drinking Connor and Shae under the table, and them retaliating with highly specific and hilarious stories from their childhood.  After, when they’re settling the bill, Shae hiccups and says, “ _Rowan_.”  He slaps a hand on the table, and Q lifts an eyebrow at him.  “ _Tattoos_.”

 

“Yes!” Connor exclaims.

 

“It’s practically tradition,” Desmond says, knocking their shoulders together.

 

“We did it once,” Q says, but they all know they don’t even need to try to convince him.  They don’t know, however, that they’ll never convince James, though they try as they’re walking through the night.  James humors them, much to Q’s amusement.  He doesn’t say anything, though, because James’s warm fingers are twined with his own, and though they don’t normally do public displays of affection, it opens up a flood of heat down Q’s spine, and he never wants to let go.

 

When, eventually, they get to Oliver’s shop, who just laughs at Connor and Shae, Q knows what he’s getting and is resolute in his decision.  Desmond goes first, getting three small, different flowers for each of his girls on the inside of his bicep.  Connor and Shae keep coming up with progressively more ridiculous ideas while James sits, relaxed, his fingers running up and down the back of Q’s neck softly.

 

“Alright,” Oliver says as he comes out of his room, Desmond following, “You ready?”

 

Q nods, tapping James’s thigh with two of his fingers before he stands, stretching.  He pauses by Desmond to check out the flowers, smiling when he explains why he got each specific one.  And then, it’s just him and Oliver, who casts him a smirk before he starts setting up.

 

“So, who’s the new guy?” he asks, “Last time, it was just you and your idiot brothers.”

 

“God, that was almost twenty years ago,” Q says, “A lot has happened since then.”

 

“Ah,” Oliver says, tapping his pedal, “Is this the one Eve’s always going on about, then?”

 

“He is, indeed,” Q says.

 

“And this is for him, yeah?” Oliver asks.  Q hears him turn, and rolls his shoulders back with an exhale.

 

“Yes and no,” Q says, “It’s for me, but it’s something that reminds me of him.”

 

“Normally,” Oliver says before his hand swipes over the back of Q’s neck, right near his hairline, “I refuse to do significant other tattoos.”

 

“You’ve already done one,” Q says, and lifts his right hand, showing the double zeroes on the side of his wrist.

 

“Yes,” Oliver says, laughing, “Right.  She said you should get the Roman numeral for seven someday.”

 

“And here we are,” Q says.

 

“What’s it mean?”

 

Q closes his eyes at the first bite of the needle.  “An old name.  A retired one.”

 

“He’s retired?” Oliver asks, his doubt evident.

 

“We work in a difficult line of business.  He was in the more physically demanding section of it for longer than most people.  It was time.”

 

“Well, damn.  Here’s hoping I look that good when I’m retired.”

 

Q just smiles.

 

Later, when James’s hands are pulling at his clothes, and Q is desperately trying to kiss every inch of skin he can find, after Q tips James over onto his back and tells him, slowly and while mouthing down his front, exactly what he wants, and James bruises his hips from holding on so tightly—Q’s on his front, arms folded beneath his head while James traces lazy circles across his back when he finds it.

 

“You little sneak,” he says suddenly before the bed dips as he moves, lifting up to get a closer look.  His hand slides into Q’s hair, draws it up away from his neck, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as he draws his fingers into a loose fist.  “M’s going to murder you if he ever sees this.”

 

Q starts to respond when James kisses his neck just shy of the new VII tattoo there.  “Good thing only you’re privy to me naked, then,” he says after a moment.

 

“Good thing,” James murmurs, and then hitches a leg over the back of Q’s thighs, his hardening cock pressing warm against his hip, his mouth trailing wet down the slope of his neck and over to his shoulder.

 

Q tries valiantly to come up with something witty to say, and just ends up sighing, “ _Fuck_ , James,” before he starts to move.

 

The night yawns open with the sound of their bodies crashing together, their breaths tangling into one, their ends and beginnings becoming nothing more than the middle of each other.

 

——

 

When Halloween comes, Q manages to get the night off, and he coerces James into joining him for trick or treating with the kids.  He texts Desmond that morning to let him know, and then forgets all about it.  It’s not until much later, when he’s coming back from the range with Eve to test out a new gun, a few hours before he’s due to leave, that it comes back to haunt him.

 

Q’s not paying attention when he gets back to the branch, and so doesn’t see R and Nala sneaking glances at him.  He does, however, stop by R’s desk to hand him the tablet he’d been working on.  “Can you look into this?” he asks as he unlocks his phone.

 

“That’s disturbing,” R says as he scans the lines of code.

 

Q hums, and continues onto his station.  It’s not until he’s behind his laptop that he finally looks up from his phone and sees it.

 

An all too familiar bone mask is sitting on his desk.

 

For one second, Q’s breath swallows itself, but then he thinks of scanning satellite images looking for James, of the comfortable scent of leather and grease and lingering traces of James’s cologne in the Martin as he hid from the world, thinks of the way the words had fallen out of his mouth before he could stop them, _fuck me_.

 

It’s the skeleton mask James wore in Mexico.

 

Q traces the edge of it with one finger, and looks up.  Everyone is busy not looking at him, and Q sighs.  A few years ago, he might’ve still been able to pry it out of them, if James had been there, but he knows better now.  They’re all as loyal to him as they are to their quartermaster.  And so, Q sets the mask aside, swipes his finger across the trackpad of his laptop, and settles back into his work.

 

He doesn’t forget about it—truthfully, he’s too distracted for the rest of the day to get much done, thinking about the possibility of James in that skeleton suit.  Still, he manages to get roped into a small thing with 0010, and he leaves work an hour late.  Luckily, he manages to avoid the rush on the tube because of this, so he makes it home in good time.

 

As is becoming habit, as Q rounds the second landing, something heavenly starts drifting down the stairs toward him.  It grows stronger as he climbs the stairs, and his stomach is grumbling by the time he gets the door open.  “Indonesian?” he guesses as he hangs up his parka.

 

“Malaysian,” James corrects.

 

Keats comes running down the hall toward him, and Q stoops down to scoop him up, holding him in one arm when he straightens.  “And how was your day?” he asks before he drops a kiss on his head.  Keats meows dutifully, and Q nods like he understands him as he walks down the hall.

 

“Well, hello,” he says when he rounds the corner into the kitchen.  Oscar is curled up on the island, paws tucked beneath his chin, watching James move about the kitchen.  Joyce has been possessed, and is currently sprinting around the flat, chirping.

 

“She’s chasing a fly,” James says, stepping away from the stove.  He leans toward Q, who steps closer, allowing James to kiss him.  It’s not often that he’ll abandon his food for affection, and so Q assumes that’ll be it when James hums against his mouth, and steps into his space, one hand coming to wrap around Q’s bicep.  The other, he threads through his hair near the base of his skull, holding him there.

 

Q, one arm occupied by Keats and the other held fast by James’s hand, can only curl a hand around his hip, but he’s changed into a loose shirt, so he dips a thumb beneath it, pressing against the hard muscle there.  James nips lightly at his bottom lip, and Q licks into his mouth, swallows down the warmth there greedily.

 

He tastes like expensive scotch and wood smoke, and Q wants to stay right here for long moments, let himself be thoroughly kissed by James.

 

It’s Keats that separates them.  He meows indignantly and starts squirming, so Q pulls away reluctantly to put him down.  He immediately starts winding through their legs, crying for love, and Q sighs loudly at him.  “You’re obnoxious,” he says.  James has already gone back to the stove when he turns.  Q drops his bag on the island, and goes to fill the kettle as he asks, “How was work?”

 

“Long,” James says.

 

“Were you in Q branch?”

 

James smirks at one of his pans.  “Possibly,” he says.

 

“If you’re about to tell me that you somehow managed to materialize a skeleton suit,” Q says, glancing at him.

 

He’s still smirking, and it occurs to him, in a blinding moment of clarity, that he’s never seen him so at ease.  He never thought he’d see much more of James than past the first layer of walls, but he’s starting to think that he’s uncovered a much deeper version of him, one no one has ever seen.

 

“Possibly,” he says again.

 

“You’re the very worst,” Q says, and James levels him with his smirk.  Q nearly cracks beneath it, but then Oscar lets out a wild meow, and they both look over.

 

“Yes?” James asks.

 

Oscar stands, back stretching toward the ceiling.  He yawns widely, turns in a circle, and settles back down.  He lets out a tiny, little meow, closes his eyes, and goes back to sleep.

 

“Lear,” James says.  Q looks to find he’s pointing a knife at him.

 

“For the dog?” Q asks.

 

“German shepherd?” James says, his voice tilting up at the end to make it sound like a question even though he knows that Q will concede to pretty much anything as long as it promises to be large.

 

“A puppy, then,” Q says, “And don’t expect me to train it.”

 

“Never,” James says, turning back to the stove, “You have cats who are terrifyingly self-sufficient.”

 

“Dogs are work,” Q says, “And training one requires an awful lot of time.  Not Henry?”

 

“Never,” James says, “Or Julius.  Lear’s the best of them all.”

 

“Fair,” Q says, “I’m going to change.  We’re leaving soon, don’t forget.”

 

After dinner, which is spicy and divine, Q swears at James when he threatens to wear the skeleton suit out, and that’s how he ends up in Q’s House Stark hoodie over a pair of dark jeans and the boat shoes.  Q makes fun of him until James shoulders him onto the bed, drops a knee between his legs, and kisses Q boneless.

 

When he has function of his limbs again, he tries to find a pair of jeans that aren’t ripped and fails, digs out his ratty Converse, and pulls it all together with a hideous burnt orange button-up beneath a black sweater with little, grey skulls all over.  James laughs at him until they’re out under the inky, star-strewn sky.

 

Trick or treating is nothing short of hilarious.  The kids are overjoyed that James has come, and they run circles around him, hurling approximately eight thousand questions at him that, which he patiently answers, and even coerce him into coming up to some of the houses with them.

 

They spend some time at Desmond’s house before everyone’s leaving for the night, and the ride home is quiet, just the sound of their breaths falling in sync, and James’s heartbeat a steady, grounding thing against Q’s wrist where their hands are wrapped together.

 

As they’re turning on their street, Q lifts their hands, and kisses the back of James’s hand.  “It’s almost been a year,” he presses the words into his skin.

 

James swipes his thumb over Q’s hand.  “Do you regret it?” he asks.

 

Q leans his cheek against their hands, and looks up at James, watches his gaze shift from the road and to him and then back again.  “Not for one second,” he says.

 

James pulls into a spot, puts the car in park, and leans over to kiss Q, soft at first, and then harder, his mouth a fast, wanting thing.  Q is the one to pull away, leaning back against the door.  “And you?” he asks.

 

“Never,” James says firmly.  He gets out of the car, and Q follows suit, heading for their building as James slides a hand down his spine, coming to rest at the small of his back.  Fire sparks beneath his touch, and it’s all Q can do to not strip him as they’re climbing the stairs.  Still, he loses the skull sweater as soon as they’re inside, and James’s jacket hits the floor before they even make it down the hall.

 

The skeleton suit, it seems, will have to wait until later.

 

——

 

“I know that you said you didn’t want—”

 

“Shit!”

 

Q jumps back, and is poised to look for cover as he watches the small explosive drop through the air.  It lands, and Q tenses, waiting.  Nothing happens.

 

“Mother— _Bond_ , honestly.”

 

The half of Q branch near the back of the room is frowning at him in confusion, though the ones closest to him are also on their feet, backing up slowly.

 

“Oh, come now,” James says.

 

“Shut _up_ ,” Q says, still watching the explosive.

 

He forces himself to look away and over to R, who shrugs.  “Give it another few seconds,” R says, “It’s on a delay.”

 

“It’s smoking!” someone yells.

 

Q barely makes it behind one of his desks before the device explodes, and though it’s designed to be small and contained, it still rocks the desk he’s behind and sends several projects shuddering to the ground around him.

 

“Did I startle you?” James whispers.

 

“Into dropping a miniature bomb, yes,” Q says quietly as he peers around the edge of the desk.

 

“My apologies.”

 

“I should have closed the line before working on it,” Q says, “Though I am going to blame it on you if M comes asking.”  James exhales a laugh.  Q stands up, and calls out, “Clear!”  He gives the explosive a wide berth, though he still steps back up into his station and starts typing on his laptop, redirecting the airflow from the vents around them.  “What were you saying?” he asks.

 

“I was wondering if you might reconsider something.”

 

Q glances at his watch, and then at the date.  “Ah,” he says.  It’s about mid-November, which he knew, but had forgotten for the moment.  “Can you hold that thought?” he asks, looking up as his branch starts filtering back in, “Until, say—8PM?”

 

“That seems highly specific,” James says.

 

“Details have been sent to your mobile.  Signing off.”  He closes the line in an effort to avoid being surprised again, offers R an apologetic smile, and starts cleaning up the mess.

 

Eve comes to collect at exactly 6PM.  “I’m done,” Q says quickly as she walks in.

 

“You’re still typing,” she points out as he sends a few last lines of code off to Arjuna, approves R’s request for holiday decorations, and breezes through a memo from M.  Before Eve can snap his laptop closed, though, Q closes out of his programs and shuts it just as she steps up to his desk.

 

“Ha,” he says.

 

“Let’s go,” she says, “We haven’t much time.”

 

“We’ve got two hours,” Q protests.

 

“And you still haven’t picked up your suit, so,” Eve says.

 

Q concedes, and hurries to pack his things.  “Don’t call if anything,” he says as he stops by R’s desk, “And that approval was for the first of December, not now.”

 

“Rude,” R says, “Have fun.  Don’t do anything Bond wouldn’t do.”

 

“Or would,” Nala adds.

  
“Is there even a margin there?” Eve teases.

 

“You’re all dead to me,” Q says, and walks out.

 

Eve drives, and though they have two hours, she lets a little of her wildness bleed into the road until Q is gripping the armrest and glaring at her when she finally stops.  “ _Two hours_ ,” he says, “There is no need for your—” he waves a hand at her.

 

Eve flashes him a dangerous smile.  “Come on,” she says, throwing her door open.

 

Their first stop is a tailor that Eve knows, and that Q can’t believe she managed to convince him into visiting.  He tries on the suit to be sure it fits, and shakes his head when he steps up in front of the mirror.  “Well, _shit_ ,” Eve says, “Look at that.  It’s baffling, truly.”

 

Q makes a face at her.

 

“Honey,” Eve says, “The way you dress sometimes, I don’t know how you still manage to clean up quite like this.”

 

“I still have access to your desktop,” Q threatens.

 

Their second stop is her flat.  Sam is home and cooking when they arrive, and he lets out a jovial hello when Q comes in with Eve.  “Been a while,” he says, shaking hands with Q, “Good to see you, mate.”  He exchanges a kiss with Eve, who lingers in the kitchen to talk to him while Q makes a beeline for the bathroom.

 

The suit fits marvelously, and though it’s one of the most expensive things he’s ever purchased, aside from his flat, he understands, as he buttons the trousers, just why James is so adamant about having nice clothes.  He’s halfway into the crisp, white shirt when his phone vibrates across the counter.  He swipes it open to find a message from James— _and what, pray tell, is this?_

Q grins at the words as Eve knocks before opening the door.  He types back as she comes in, closing the door behind her.  She sets a glass of wine down on the counter before hopping up onto it, sipping from her own.

 

_Just a small request as retribution for your larger one later._

James takes several long moments to respond, and when he does, Q can read how he’s typed and retyped it a few times before sending— _is this you saying you’ll wear it?_

_Wait, and see._

Q sets the phone back down on the counter, and lifts the wine.  “Is he home?” she asks.

 

“Just found the suit,” Q says before he sips.

 

“Are you really going to wear a ring?” Eve asks.

 

Q puts the glass back down, and finishes buttoning the shirt as he shrugs.  “Why not?” he asks, “It’s not as though it’s that much of a secret anymore.  A few of the double oh’s found out on the way back from Antarctica, and I’m sure they didn’t keep it to themselves.”

 

“The minions don’t know,” Eve points out.  “Come here.”  Q obeys, stepping up in front of her.  She starts fixing his collar as she continues, “I’m almost certain M doesn’t, either.  It’s a statement.”

 

He stays put as she leans over to grab the crimson tie.  “We’ve been married for a year,” Q says as Eve loops the tie around his neck, slipping it beneath the collar of his shirt before she starts tying it.

 

“Yes,” she says, “But very few people know that.  I’m just trying to prepare you.”

 

“I know,” Q says, “But—I don’t know.  I don’t want to say _I’m ready_ because there was never a time that I wasn’t, but—” Q breaks off to shrug, and Eve smooths a hand down his front, over the tie.  He steps back again, reaching for the navy vest.  “He’s retired now,” Q says, “He’s not likely to ever go back out into the field.  And I certainly don’t plan on being kidnapped again, if I have any say in it.”

 

“How’re your sessions going with Reese, speaking of?”

 

“Adelaide’s joined, as well, and Kellan said something about coming down last week,” Q says, “They’re all very—” he makes an aborted gesture with his hand.

 

“They care about you,” Eve translates.

 

“It’s all very charming,” Q says, finishing up the last button on the vest.  “Well?” he asks.

  
Eve beams at him.  “Oh darling,” she says, “You look happy.”

 

“How terrible,” Q says, and Eve laughs loudly, leaning back against the wall as he reaches for his wine.

 

He stays at Eve’s for another hour, letting her fuss about the state of his hair—it’s never going to get better—try to convince him not to wear socks with the tan shoes—it’s nearly snowing, he reminds her—and then finally calls a cab when they both look up to find it’s nearly 7:30PM.

 

The Martin isn’t in sight when Q steps out onto the curb, and so he goes inside to check in with the hostess.  He’s just being assured their table is ready when a hand unfolds across the middle of his back, and the top of James’s nose runs along the shell of his ear.  “The things I want to do to you right now,” he practically purrs, his breath fanning out along Q’s neck.

 

Q turns, and James tucks his hands into his pockets as he looks him up and down, his blue eyes moving slowly, memorizing every inch of him.  “Well,” he says when he reaches Q’s face again, “This is certainly not what I was expecting.”

 

Q steps into his space, hands smoothing out over the lapels of his steel grey suit jacket.  The right tucks beneath it while the left flattens over his heart.  The suit is complimented by a pale blue shirt that Q successfully matched to his eyes, a navy vest, and a steel grey tie.  Q levels him with a quirked eyebrow and a fierce grin.  “Hello to you, too,” he says, “I can’t wait to watch you walk away in those trousers.”

 

James’s eyes flash with something dangerous, and then he leans in, kissing Q in a way that looks soft but leaves his mouth singing from the shape of his teeth.  “I’m going to ruin you later,” he whispers before he straightens again.

 

Q taps the hand over his heart, and releases him, stepping back again.  “Mister Larson,” the hostess says, “If you’ll follow me.”

 

Q nods, and turns, starting to walk when James’s fingers skim across his.  Q bites the corner of his smile, and flexes his fingers, letting James twine theirs together.

 

They’re given a table off in a corner, away from the hubbub, and beneath warm, golden light that settles over them like a blanket.  Q leaves the drink ordering to James, who reviews their wine list with keen interest, making small comments here and there as he goes through it.  Q starts to make a face when he orders a bottle, as well as a martini and whiskey, but then he looks up, and James is staring at him with such open joy that everything else falls away.

 

“So,” Q says as their waiter leaves to fill their drink orders.

 

“Do you remember France?” James asks.

 

“Fondly,” Q says, “That tea.”

 

James smiles at him.  “It was the first time we discussed this.”  He indicates the space between them.

 

“Look how far we’ve come,” Q says.

 

“Indeed.”  He stares at Q for a moment longer before he leans away from the table, settling in his chair.  “M’s approved Australia for the first round of survival training,” he says.

 

“Think you can allow them one long weekend while you’re there?” Q asks.

 

“As it turns out,” James says, and there’s something Cheshire-like in his grin, “you can stay in Hobbiton.”

 

Q barely maintains his composure.  “Yes, you can,” he says, “Though it’s supposed to be very difficult to arrange.”

 

“Not when you’ve outed a notorious serial killer.”

 

“No,” Q says, “Really?”

 

“Two nights,” James says, “Friday and Saturday.”

 

“I may even let you plan us a hike,” Q says.

 

“It’s already planned,” James says, and Q laughs.

 

The rest of their night passes similarly.  It’s one of the most enjoyable nights Q thinks he’s ever had, though his face is starting to ache from smiling so much.  The food is to die for, and the whiskey is so delightful that he gets a second.  It’s not until they’re sharing a dessert that a comfortable quiet wraps around them, and Q looks up to find James regarding him with something he’s never seen before.

 

“Yes?” he asks.

 

“About earlier,” James says.

 

“Ah,” Q says, “That.”  When James doesn’t continue, Q steals the last bite of dessert, leans back in his seat, and says, “Go on, then.”

 

James, to his surprise, reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and retrieves a small box.  It’s just a small, black thing that James takes the top off of, setting the bottom half down on the table between them.  Two identical silver bands sit on a bed of grey silk.  Q takes one of them out, rolling it onto his palm.

 

“People will talk,” he says, glancing at James.

 

“It’s not for them,” he says, “And if you still wish not to, I understand.  However.”

 

“No,” Q says.  He slides the ring onto the appropriate finger, and turns his hand over, taking a moment to look at it before he continues, “I am yours.”

 

“How barbaric,” James says, and Q erupts into a surprised, delighted laugh.

 

——

 

R notices it first.

 

Q’s shocked it’s taken them this long since their anniversary was nearly a month ago, but they’re halfway through December, the branch is undergoing decoration transformation, and 002 is being chased through the streets of France when R comes over with his laptop and a series of maps.

 

“There,” Q says, and points to a spot on one of the maps, “Give Keira’s team control of the security, and get us in there.  002 is right outside—what,” he breaks off because R is openly gaping at him.  When R doesn’t immediately respond, Q quickly looks to his right, expecting the tree to be on fire or something equally disastrous.  “R, _what_ ,” he says, looking back to him.

 

“Did you get— _married_?” he whispers the last word.

 

Q blinks.

 

R pointedly looks down at his left hand, which he’d been using to point with, and then back up at Q.

 

“Oh,” Q says, “Uh, yes.  Last year.”

 

“Last— _what_!” R yells.

 

“Water tribe!” Nala shouts, lifting her head, “What is it?”

 

“Q’s—”

 

“Oh, don’t,” Q mutters, rolling his eyes.

 

“—married!”

 

Nala just blinks rapidly in response.

 

“Wait, what the hell?” Keira says, yanking out one of her headphones.

 

“Since _when_?” Arjuna asks.

 

“Last fucking _year_ ,” R says, and turns to face Q fully.

 

“We’re in the middle of a mission,” he says, indicating the maps on R’s screen.

 

“Sure,” R says, “002, how are you doing?”

  
“Oh, do carry on,” Charles says, “This is according to my interests.”

 

“Great, thanks.  Q?”

 

“Well, hardly anyone else knows, either,” Q says, “It’s not like I didn’t say anything on purpose.  It just wasn’t—a thing we talked about.”

 

“Was there a—you know, a wedding?”

 

Nala laughs, and doesn’t bother hiding it when Q laughs, too.  “No,” he says, “Of course not.”

 

“Oh my _god_!” Keira exclaims, “Was Costa Rica your honeymoon?  Q!”

 

“Well,” Q says, shrugging, “It was a bit late, but yes.”

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” R says, and folds his arms over his chest, “A bit late?  Last year?  How the hell long have you been married to _James fucking Bond_ for?”

 

Q doesn’t respond right away, instead stares down R until he shrinks a little, shoulders starting to rise toward his ears.  “A year,” he says finally.

 

“Woah,” Arjuna says.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” R says, “And you’re still alive?”

 

“That is rather impressive,” Charles adds.

 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Q says, turning back to his laptop, “002, you’ve stopped moving.”

 

“Didn’t want to miss anything,” Charles says, “And the baddies have gotten themselves all lost.”

 

“The baddies,” Q repeats.

 

“ _Wait_.  Bond is your _husband_ ,” R says, who hasn’t moved.

 

“Yes, that’s generally what being married means,” Q says, “Are we really not done with this?”

 

“That’s so weird,” R says before he takes his laptop back to his desk, effectively redirecting Keira’s attention with the security on the building 002 needs to get into.

 

Thankfully, the rest of the branch takes his lead, and goes back to work.  Of course, as all good things must end eventually, they dissolve into schoolchildren just after they’ve wrapped up 002’s mission, and the doors open.  They immediately begin whispering and clustering when James walks through, who steadfastly ignores them.

 

“I’m going to murder each and every one of them,” Q says when James reaches his desk, not looking up.

 

“Took them long enough,” he says.

 

Q keeps typing, filing away the logs for 002’s mission and opening up James’s flight schedule.  “Oh,” he says sadly, “You’re off soon?”

 

“Plane leaves in a few hours,” James says, “Though there was a rumor that my ticket had been upgraded.”

 

“Well, isn’t that handy,” Q says, closing his schedule and opening the weather.  “Ouch,” he says, “Looks like Australia’s entering a small heat wave.  Nearly 90 when you arrive.  Though the humidity is low, so that’s something to look forward to.”

 

“You’re enjoying this,” James accuses.

 

Q finally looks up, lifting a hand to adjust his glasses.  “A bit,” he admits.

 

“First class?” James asks.

 

“Eve had you sitting with those miscreants,” Q says, “And I’m not too fond of that one.”

  
“Those six, you mean,” James says, “You know, there are only ten of them, and you dislike more than half.”

 

“I have very high standards.”

 

“Your second in command wore a sweater with a light-up elf on it last week.”

 

“Hm,” Q says, “Fair point.”  He glances at his laptop when a notification pops up in the corner.  “M’s on his way down,” he says.

 

“Be good,” James says, and sets a hand down on his desk.

 

“Impossible with you gone,” Q says, “I’ll have to blow something up just to make it feel like home.”  He loops his fingers around James’s, exhaling slowly.  “Come back?” he asks.

 

“Three weeks,” James says, and steps away from his desk, “I’ll let you know when we’ve landed.”

 

“The time difference is heinous,” Q says.  James starts to turn, and Q taps his fingers against the desk quickly before he flattens his hand there.  He sees James’s grin start to twist across his mouth before it melts into a smile, and he steps back up, leaning down.

 

“I miss you already,” he whispers a heartbeat before he kisses Q.

 

Q allows them one full breath before he leans away, drawing his teeth over his bottom lip, tasting James there.  “Off you pop,” he says, and James nods once before he leaves.

 

He crosses paths with M in the hall, and Q tries not to catch M’s eye when he walks in, but there’s a man he doesn’t recognize trailing him, and his curiosity gets the better of him.

 

“I see Bond is off,” M says when he reaches Q, who is frowning at his empty mug.  He hears R sigh before he stands up, and he delivers a wide smile R’s way when he grabs his mug on his way to the tea station.

 

“For a month, yes,” Q says, “I see you’ve made a new friend.”

 

“006,” M says, and Q’s throat goes dry, “This is your quartermaster.  He’ll be outfitting you for your mission to Indonesia.”

 

“Charmed,” Q manages to say.  “M,” he adds before M can leave.  M only turns halfway, waiting.  “The other moniker?” he asks.

 

“In due time, Q,” M says, and then he’s gone, leaving Q to try not to stare at the new 006.

 

——

 

The memo comes down seven hours before he’s due to leave for New Zealand.  Q’s in the middle of lunch with Eve, listening to her lay out the several reasons why she thinks Sam is going to propose, when M interrupts.

 

Q has no intention of reading the email when it comes through, content to just listen to Eve for now, but then she stops, sighs, and says, “Please don’t be mad at me that I didn’t say anything beforehand.”  She inclines her head toward his laptop.  “You’re going to want to read that.”

 

Q frowns, and reaches over to open the message.  He only gets halfway.

 

“Oh,” he says.

 

“He’s out of the country right now, but M wanted you to hook up as soon as he got back on British soil.  He’s landing in three hours.”

 

Q rubs a hand absentmindedly over the VII on the back of his neck.

 

Eve pokes at a sushi roll before she says, “I can always talk to him about using the 0013 moniker.”

 

“Please,” Q scoffs, “It was only a matter of time before M found a new 007.  Here’s hoping this one is less of a bulldog.”

 

“Speaking of,” Eve says, and this successfully distracts him.

 

——

 

Q checks his watch.

 

His flight leaves in four hours, and he doesn’t fancy catching rush hour traffic if this meeting goes late.

 

After being surprised with his last four agents, Q is eager to meet with this new one outside of MI-6.  He’ll be in London only for a short layover, and then off to Argentina for a potentially two-week mission.

 

The coffee here is particularly good, and he orders a second before the new 007 finally arrives.  He posts a picture on Instagram of the leaf drawn through the foam with just the edge of his wrist in it, the letter Q standing out sharp in the picture.  The door opens as he’s sharing it across his other social media platforms, and he looks up.

 

The new 007 is young.  He’s undeniably handsome, with wide shoulders, a charming smile, and big, brown eyes.  He’s dressed smartly, in well-tailored black trousers, a burgundy scarf, and a black jacket that shows off the bulk hidden beneath.  Q watches him order, and then turn to observe the café around him.

 

He has a sturdy, old name—William.  He blends in easily with the crowd around him with his handsome beard, neatly parted hair, and open face.  Q knows better, though, and sees the sharpness of his jaw, the quick flash of his canines when he smiles, even the way he carefully files away everything here for later consideration.

 

He retrieves his drink just as Q’s phone vibrates in his pocket.  He fishes it out as William sits at a table a few away from him.

 

Since he’s late, Q doesn’t move to sit with him right away, instead opens the message from James.  It’s just a picture, but it’s of the Australian sky, a rich, ocean blue streaked with enormous white clouds tinted gold by the sun.  There’s just a sliver of fine sand at the bottom, and one of James’s knees in the corner.

 

Q smiles, pockets the phone, and stands up, taking his coffee with him as he winds through the tables to where William is sitting.  “May I?” he asks as he stops at the table.

 

William nods, not looking at him, but instead at something on his phone.  Q slips into the seat, sets his coffee down, and shrugs out from under his bag, hooking it around the chair.  He pulls the kit from it, sets it down on the table between them, and says, “007.”

 

William looks at the black box first, and then up at Q.  “You’ve got to be joking me,” he says.

 

Q refrains from heaving a miserable sigh at him.  “I am your quartermaster.”

  
“Really,” William says, “I was warned you were young, but still.”

 

“Five years your senior, actually,” Q says, “And quite sick of having this conversation.  The file has already been downloaded to your mobile, and this—” he lays a hand over the kit, “—contains your gun, coded to your palm print personally, a radio, and a standard issue watch.  Details for each setting of the watch have been downloaded, as well.  Please read both thoroughly.  And do try to return the equipment in one piece.  The previous 007 was particularly incapable of that, so I’m hopeful things will take a turn for the better this time.  Now,” Q drains the last of his coffee before standing, “I’ve a flight to catch, so if you’ve any questions, R has first command back in the branch until Wednesday.  It was lovely meeting you, 007.  Good luck in Argentina.”

 

Q tugs on his parka, loops his bag over his head, and makes to leave when William says, “My apologies if I offended you, Q.  I was just—expecting someone—well.”

 

“I endeavor to exceed your expectations, 007,” Q says, and turns away before he can say anymore.

 

He’s barely outside before he’s dialing James, who answers on the third ring.  “Is he as horrible as expected?” James asks by way of greeting.

 

“God, he’s _you_ ,” Q says, “Made a comment about my age first thing.”

 

“If you fall in love with him, I’ll have to kill him, unfortunately.”

 

“I would hope so,” Q says, “Though you are twisting my arm into a twenty-three hour flight.”

 

“I’ll make it up to you,” James says, “You, me, the hobbits.”

 

Q grins, and tugs open the door of the Martin, dropping behind the wheel.  “I’m trying to imagine you as a hobbit,” Q says, “I think you’d be a Took.”

 

“I’m offended by that, I think,” James says, and Q just laughs.

 

——

 

December fades into January in snow and wind and a cold so deep, Q loathes going outside.  He spends the first half of January sending James pictures of the ugly cardigans he’s wearing, calling him an ass every time he sends back a picture of whatever beautiful landscape he’s near, helping Eve plan her upcoming wedding, and trying strange new foods with R and Nala.

 

He spends New Years’ with his brothers, and even takes a Saturday day trip out to see their mother.  It’s the first time Q’s visited since they buried her, and Connor wraps an arm around him when he starts crying.  In seconds, Desmond and Shae are there, too, wrapping together.

 

The cold continues to seep into his bones, and Q takes to lighting candles in the bedroom even though he knows they barely give off any heat.  The cats have started sleeping under the blankets with him, though half the bed remains untouched.

 

When, finally, James is due to return from Australia, Q is so eager for him to come home that he shows up for his appointment thirty minutes early that morning.  The shelter isn’t even open yet, so he waits in the Martin, working on his phone as the minutes tick by slowly.

 

On the dot, he pushes the door open and is greeted by the smell of animals.  It’s an easy enough exchange.  He’s already visited a few times in the past month, and he finished signing everything last week.  “Your husband’s coming home today, yes?” the woman helping him asks as she leads them back through to the kennels.

 

“Twenty-two hour flight, yes,” Q says.

 

“I can’t imagine,” she says, shaking her head, “Where’s he flying in from?”

 

“Australia.”

 

“Goodness.  Must be an exotic job to be working in a place like that.  Here we are.  Three months old.  What did you say his name was going to be?”

 

Q kneels down in front of the kennel, smiling as the German shepherd jumps up from his bed and runs over.  He reaches a hand in, and he immediately starts licking his hand.  “Lear,” he says.

 

“After King Lear?” she asks.

 

Q looks up, his smile widening.  “Indeed,” he says.

 

She nods appreciatively.  “He’s the perfect breed for a kingly name,” she says, “Well, he’s ready if you are.”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

Lear is a bundle of energy on the ride home, and Q spends much of it laughing as he runs back and forth from the driver side window to the passenger side before he finally settles in Q’s lap, head resting in the crook of his elbow.

 

By the time he gets home, reintroduces Lear to Keats, Joyce, and Oscar—they’ve met twice now, once at the flat and once at the shelter—and gets everything set up for him, James is texting him to let him know that, miraculously, his flight is on schedule, and they should be landing in an hour.

 

“Alright,” Q says as he clips on Lear’s leash, “I’m leaving you with the monsters.  Keats is in charge.  Don’t let Joyce bully you.  And don’t listen to a single thing Oscar says.  He’s a menace.”  Lear licks the inside of his wrist lovingly.  Q scratches behind one of his ears, and smiles when Lear leans happily into his hand.  “Keats,” he says, looking up.

 

Joyce is sitting a few feet away, glaring at Lear.  Keats is currently wrestling with Oscar, though they pause at Q’s voice.  “Keep your sister in check,” he says.  Oscar kicks Keats in the face, and they’re back to wrestling.

 

Q sighs, and stands.

 

After he walks Lear, he has a stern conversation with Joyce, which ends in her licking his nose once, flicking her tail at him, and disappearing into the bedroom.  He promises Lear he’ll be back soon, texts James to let him know he’s on his way, and starts the Martin just in time for R to call.

 

He spends the ride to the airport walking 009 through a complicated hack because all of Q branch’s attention is focused on 007 in Argentina, who was supposed to be back on British soil two weeks ago, and who unearthed intel no one had been expecting to find.  He makes it to the airport on time, and is still talking to Kellan twenty minutes later when he spots James.

 

“Are you okay from here?” he asks, lifting a hand in a wave.

 

“Yes, thank you,” Kellan says, “Sorry for the trouble.  It’s uploading to your network now.  Give Bond a kiss for me.  Cheers, Q!”

 

“Signing off,” Q says, shaking his head.

 

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” James says as he approaches.

 

“I wore this special,” Q says, plucking at his plum cardigan.

 

“It goes quite well with the maroon shirt,” James says.  He stops in front of him, and Q takes his hand from behind his back, holding out his Ares III mission sweatshirt.  James’s smile is genuine and wide when he takes it from him, dropping his bag to the ground so he can shrug out of his jacket and tug it on.  “I meant to steal this,” he says.

 

“How was your flight?” Q asks.

 

“Better now that I’m home with you.”

 

“Sap,” Q accuses.

 

James kisses him.  It’s a lot like waking up, like the sun is rising in his very veins, like there’s an ocean swelling in his chest, waves finally calming now that the other piece of his heart has returned.

 

When he releases him, it’s to lean their foreheads together.  “I missed you,” James whispers.

 

“You’re not allowed to leave for at least a half year,” Q says, “Also, happy birthday.”

 

James leans away, looking at him strangely.  “Is it?” he asks.

 

“Forty-five,” Q says, “You survived.”

 

James laughs softly, and reaches down for his bag.  He takes Q’s hand with the other, and they head out of the airport as he says, “I never thought.”

 

“No, I don’t think anyone did,” Q agrees.

 

The ride home is full of conversation, though none of it is important.  James tells him about the other passengers on the plane, spinning tales so wild that Q outright refuses to believe them.  Q updates him on the double oh’s and Eve’s wedding plans, and James reminds him that he’s still miffed that he tried that new seafood restaurant without him.  They just talk, if only to hear the sound of each other’s voices, and Q nearly forgets what’s waiting in their flat until they pull up out front.

 

He doesn’t say anything, though he’s grinning when they get out of the car.  “What?” James asks.

 

“Nothing,” Q says.

 

They get all the way to the third floor, with the key in the door, before Lear starts barking.  James inhales sharply, his disbelief evident, and Q opens the door.  Lear darts out, runs a circle around both of them, and then sprints back in.

 

“You little—” James says, but doesn’t finish that thought as they walk in.  Lear is sitting impatiently at the end of the hall, his tail wagging so hard that his butt is shushing across the floor.  “Lear?” he asks.  Immediately, Lear jumps up and runs over.  James drops to one knee, hands threading through his fur.

 

“Three months,” Q says.

 

“Q,” James says, his voice so fond and so full of joy that it makes Q’s mouth split into a warm, easy smile.  He kneels next to him, and is instantly rewarded with a kiss, James’s hands moving from Lear’s fur to wrap around Q’s jaw.  “Thank you,” he presses the words into his mouth.

 

Q just kisses him again, slow and full of all the things he’s been missing, all the unsaid things, before he says, “Welcome home, James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy wow, it's over. This was less of an event, writing this, than the first one, but still quite the feat. I started writing this a month ago, and finished it about a week ago. As before, I don't think this is my last foray into the world of 00q, but this is my last fic for this particular verse. I've got _at least_ two other ideas in the works (badass biker Q and addict Q), though I have to be honest and say that I don't see myself writing them anytime soon. Certainly some day, but my focus right now are my original novels.
> 
> I am eternally grateful for every single person that read this, gave it kudos, commented on it, and bookmarked it. I wouldn't be posting if it wasn't for you, and I thank you to the ends of the earth for taking time out of your day to read my words. I hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to leave your thoughts!


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